Foundling
by Mechabeira
Summary: He wasn't really sure how he'd gotten there. AU. T/Z.
1. OxCart Man

_...his pocket's heavy / with the year's coins for salt and taxes_

_-Donald Hall, "Ox-Cart Man"_

He wasn't really sure how he'd gotten there. Had it been Abby's suggestion or a flier in the breakroom? An advertisement in the newspaper he'd perused over lunch? _Read to poor kids_. It must've said. _And we just might have one less delinquent on the streets in five years. _He may have even rolled his eyes, taken a scornful swig of coffee.

Did it matter, really? Because now here he stood on a clear, warm Saturday morning. He could be having (another) coffee and looking over cold case files, or endlessly sanding the prow of his boat. Instead he was at the Congress Heights Community Center, leaning against a wall in a run-down classroom. Low tables and chairs, posters on the walls advocating reading, writing, washing one's hands. He suspected that senior citizens and do-gooders from across the metro area came here to feel better about their four-dollar lattes and tennis club memberships. He wasn't quite sure what his own motives were, but here he was, undercaffeinated and overdressed in the stuffy room.

An hour ago the kids—most of them minorities, all of them poor—had been paired with a volunteer with whom they would spend the morning reading and doing arts and crafts. Gibbs, uncomfortable in the close quarters, had stepped away from the group to watch, to try to understand what he was supposed to do, and he'd ended up without a partner. But a scuffle near the doorway caught his attention—always on guard, always waiting for a shoe to drop—he'd unconsciously reached for his weapon before realizing he'd left it in the car. He sighed, craving coffee and an escape.

Mrs. Berman a former first-grade teacher and current volunteer coordinator, stood in the doorway, talking curtly to someone outside of his line of sight. She huffed, turned on her heel, and approached him with a steely glare.

"I thought you could just observe for today," she apologized, "but I didn't realize my friend here was hiding in the bathroom." It was clear from her tone that she wasn't addressing him, nor was this person an actual _friend_.

She motioned for him to follow her, and he did. Just outside the room, leaning—skulking, really—against the wall, was a kid.

"Mr. Gibbs, I'd like you to meet Sara. She's one of our students here, but feels a little reluctant about having a reading partner. Maybe the two of you could spend some time getting to know each other before you join the rest of the group."

She patted his arm and left. Was the woman relieved? Was she as anxious as he was to flee to a quieter, more private place? Was she on a mission to find more kids in more bathrooms? He regarded this small person carefully. The light in the hallway was dimmer than that in the classroom, so he had some difficulty discerning much information about this kid. Mrs. Berman had addressed it as "Sara," so he could assume she was…_she_. Her pants—jeans?—were threadbare, sneakers scuffed, t-shirt rumpled as she huddled against the doorframe, fists stuffed in her pockets.

He crouched down to her eye level. _Low_.

"Hi," he offered quietly.

She sniffed, glanced up at him from beneath dark, uncombed, curls.

"Hi, Sara." He said a bit louder.

"Hello," she replied softly. So softly. Was he meant to hear it?

"So, should we find a book to read?" He thought it might be best to get straight down to business.

_Shrug._

He didn't offer his hand; she wouldn't take it. Instead he moved steadily to the shelf at the back of the crowded, hot, noisy room. She followed. He crouched to study the spines—and perhaps also to put himself on her level—but Sara hung back, hands still in her pockets. He pivoted, craning his neck in an attempt to make eye contact.

"Well? Which one?" She dug the toe of one sneaker into the carpet and shrugged again. Gibbs could feel something akin to irritation settle over him. Was this going to be the extent of their interaction? He got more cooperation from government paper-pushers in windowless offices.

Turning back to the shelf, he recognized a familiar, dog-eared picture book and pulled it off the shelf. One of Kelly's perennial favorites, it was a short story about a rural family farm. The illustrations were like papercuts—simple, colorful forms. The writing was simple—short sentences, a straightforward tone—without being patronizing.

"I know this one," he proclaimed. "And I really like the picture of the farmer walking his ox-cart through the night."

Whatever relatable moment he'd tried to created had apparently worked, because for the first time Sara lifted her head and they made brief eye contact. Her eyes were gray-green and startlingly clear, the Atlantic on an overcast afternoon. The gaze was short-lived—she'd gone back to studying the floor, but pulled one hand out of her pocket long enough to make a half-hearted motion to the book in his hand.

"_Wannareaditme_?"

His brow creased. "Huh?"

She took a steadying breath. "Do you wanna read it to me?"

"Yes. I would like that very much." Gibbs motioned for her to follow him again, but noticed that all the tables were occupied. He hesitated; this was not his territory and he was without a map. With the same hand, she motioned to a bench against the windows, a fair distance from the other kids and their partners.

"Over there?" He made sure to keep his voice light and low.

_Shrug. _

"Ok."

That side of the room was cast in shadows, even at this bright hour. The dirty windows faced the side of an industrial office building, and the buzzing rows of florescent lights only cast their glare on the center of the room, over the chairs and tables and posters of raccoons in sneakers washing their hands. It dawned on him that Sara probably preferred the dim. A heaviness settled over his heart as she sat cautiously on the bench—not next to him, as Kelly would have—but well beyond arm's reach. Sara made no indication that she was paying any attention to him or the book he had yet to open. Hands loose in her lap, sleeves pulled down to her knuckles, head down, she could have been waiting for a bus.

"_In October of the year, he counts potatoes dug from the brown field."_

She inclined her head slightly in his direction and began to pick at the fraying hem of her shirt. Gibbs could see that the webs of skin between her fingers were raw-red and scaly even from as far away has he sat. He stumbled over a line about honeycombs and she quickly swept her hands behind her, crossing her wrists behind her back. He tried not to imagine a suspect or prisoner in the same position.

"_flaxseeds, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose feathers, yarn."_

Gibbs paused. Sometime over the past seven pages, Sara hadn't come closer, but had twisted herself toward the timbre of his voice. Head inclined ever so slightly towards him, knees together, her weight balanced on her left hip, he knew she was listening, but trying hard to make it look like she wasn't. As if waking from a deep slumber, she twitched once and righted herself when she realized that he'd stopped.

"S'over?"

"No. I just realized that I didn't show you the pictures."

As if approaching a wounded tiger or an unpredictable criminal, he slid himself down the length of the bench, stopping when her shoulders curled inwards. Her hands, he noticed, were behind her back again.

"Here."

He held the book out enough that she could see, and turned slowly through the pages they'd read. She blinked lazily at the pictures, sliding herself forward—closer to the book, not to Gibbs—as they came upon the illustration of the farmer and his wife subduing and sheering a sheep, Sara's face hardened.

"What're dey doin'?"

"Sheering a sheep. So they can..." he trailed off, turning the page to mother and daughter combing and spinning wool into fine yarn, "make soft yarn for sweaters and socks."

She nodded, not reconciled to the sheep's plight.

"It doesn't hurt him," He amended quickly, sensing that she did not like _one bit_ the idea of an animal in pain. "It's just to help him change from winter clothes to summer."

She nodded again and Gibbs hoped it was in relief or understanding.

"You keep goin'?

So he began again the story of the farmer's walk into town alongside his ox-cart, the sale of his items, the earning of money, the exchange of that money for new goods, and the long walk back to his home to begin the process again. By the time they'd finished, most of the other children were long-done with their projects and were greeting their parents and grandparents at the classroom door.

"I guess we're done." Gibbs said by way of goodbye.

For only the second time in an hour, she met his gaze. Again, he was taken aback by the clarity of her eye color. He wondered, dully, how bright she was. There was a flatness to her gaze, a lack of expectation, that vaguely upset him, though he didn't quite know why. And he wasn't ready to start guessing.

She glanced once at the last kids leaving the room, then shuffled to the doorway empty-handed. She turned, offered a half-wave, and was gone. He returned the book to the shelf and headed for the doors when a motion caught his eye at the end of the hallway.  
>"Youcomin'back?"<p>

Gibbs slowed his steps as he got closer; she was tucked to the right of the outer doors, pressed against the narrow floor-to-ceiling window embedded with chicken wire.

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Yeh."

"Ok." He couldn't help but smile, feeling like he'd actually done something in the last hour. "I'll look for you next week, ok?"

Sara grunted some acknowledgement—or at least Gibbs half-hoped it was—and stared openly at him as he swung out into the middday sunshine.

Gibbs turned, waved, and made his way across the cracked macadam to his car.


	2. The Way It Goes

_Becky Johnson bought the farm / put that needle in her arm_

_ that's the way that it goes / that's the way._

_ Gillian Welch, "The Way It Goes."_

"Grab your gear."

A case had come in; a dead Marine found where the campus of St. Elizabeth's Hospital met the greenway. Wallet, phone, ID cards, cash, all left intact. It hadn't taken any hard science for local law enforcement officers to identify him, and now the file was the proud property of NCIS. So when he'd come down the stairs, interrupted some casual conversation about the sunny summer weekend, and announced their departure, the usual flurry of activity ensued; the banter stopped, coffees and knapsacks were grabbed, holsters checked. The Charger was retrieved from the lot, loaded, and pointed over the 11th Street Bridge toward Southeast DC.

The day had dawned as sunny and close as the weekend had been, and the Anacostia shimmered in all it's polluted glory beneath the freeway. Gibbs drove, and for just a minute he could pretend the city was something else—some other urban animal, asleep in a long winter of recession. DC, the political center of the free world, was also an inner-city, a place of poverty, segregation, and sometimes, despair. But on this Monday morning, with traffic headed in the opposite direction, the air felt cleaner, more nourishing than it had in a while. He could almost pretend he wasn't going to the scene of someone's demise.

Almost. For as soon as they approached the ramp that took them off the bridge and into Fairlawn, the feeling was gone. Fairlawn, Anacostia, Buena Vista, Barry Farm, were all neighborhoods were poverty and it's neglect were abundant. Public housing without the funds to maintain the buildings, rental properties where landlords gauged tenants for sub-standard housing, unemployment and the un-employable. Row houses sagged sadly on wide avenues, trash accumulated around wrought-iron fences that had been build for decoration and now served as protection. White flight had devastated Southeast, but gentrification was a quiet force in the area. _Humans are so fickle_ thought Gibbs. _We can't love something enough, but turn our back the minute it gets too complicated_. _Is that the only thing I've learned from so many marriages? _He snorted to himself and turned down the long drive to St. Elizabeth, framed on both sides by towering chain-link fences.

Most of the campus of St. Elizabeth's had fallen into serious disrepair since the late 1970s had chased the money our of Southeast DC. The central building was boarded up, the sidewalks giving way to oak roots, and ivy had grown over the eastern facades of most buildings—the side protected from the wind that blew in off the river. The hospital had been the home to poets, assassins, and the first formulas of truth serum. Now its grounds were home to the remains of a thirty-five year old Marine Corps Staff Sergeant named Joseph Kettle.

Gibbs swallowed the dregs of his coffee and doled out orders again.

"DiNozzo, bag and tag, McGee, photos, Ziva, sketch. And don't leave out that hole in the perimeter fence when we came in." He was met with the usual responses of "Yes, Boss."

Ducky hunched over the body, examining the man's neck and arms, where particulates from the ground had worked their way under his chin. He'd been rolled, maybe more than once.

"Lividity is unique, Jethro." Ducky cut his reverie and amplified his own thoughts. "I can't say for sure without opening him up, but I'm fairly certain he died standing up and was tossed here an hour or two later."

"C.O.D.?"

"Only a hazy idea as of now, but Mr. Palmer and I will take him back and get to work."

Gibbs nodded, knowing it would only be a matter of hours before they had something substantial. There was nothing earth-shattering here. Dead guy. Wooded lot. The river below and a nearly-abandoned hospital above. Beef with the wrong person got you killed, no matter the pin on your dress blues or the figures in your bank account. His team would finish their detail work and get back to headquarters to begin their research and background checks. Hopefully by Thursday morning they'd have their witnesses cleared, alibis checked out, and a suspect or two in interrogation. He wanted to spend Friday doing his report and Friday evening in the basement with a finger of bourbon and a belt sander. And Saturday.

_Saturday_. He'd made a promise and he intended to honor it. That kid was...something. He couldn't, or didn't want to, identify what he felt about the previous Saturday morning. The dingy Community Center classroom, the tired and falsely-enthusiastic Mrs. Berman, and grubby, sly-eyed Sara in her threadbare blue jeans.

"Boss!"

McGee was calling him, crouched over a depression in the ground. Leaves and dead grass had been swept away, and in the shallow hole lay needles. A lot of them. All used. Gibbs sighed. Had the sergeant been a junkie? Sliding into drug use from the pressures of war in Afghanistan? Or maybe it was a Gulf War pastime brought home in a convoy with a bright-eyed, motivated young Lance Corporal? It had happened before, and as long as teenage boys were sent to war, it would happen again; Gibbs had seen it in his own ranks and among the deaths he investigated with NCIS.

"Bag 'em, McGee, and get 'em to Abby before sundown. That stuff degrades after a few hours. Hopefully we'll get a lead."

"All right, Boss." Tim was already donning his protective gloves.

Now, wasn't there some greenhorn cop around here to get him a coffee?

The lab door slid open and there was Abby, hunched over her keyboard and bouncing to the music that blared from the speakers behind her. He didn't need to turn off the noise to announce his arrival, enough time had passed since she'd received the evidence that she was expecting him.

"Gibbs! Did you see the article in the paper this morning? My branch of Habitat got funding to do a whole new project in Southeast!"

He couldn't help but smile. Abby's capacity for love was endless.

"I saw, Abbs. What've you got?"

"The needles were dirty. Like, real dirty. Some were old-fashioned Mexican Brown Tar, others were stuff that's slightly higher in potency and a ton higher in garbage. Literally, trash...did you know that most heroin contains at least trace amounts of sugar? You know, the stuff you _don't_ put in your coffee."

He handed over the plastic cup, Abby's own addiction of choice. She smiled and took a gulp.

"I'm waiting on the tox report from the autopsy, but I think we have either cause of death or a cause-of-cause of death. You know...dealers. They're so tricky nowadays..."

He kissed the back of her head, as by this point she'd turned back to the computer. He'd turned toward the elevator, but stopped, turned again, and clicked off the iPod.

Hey, Abbs?"

She looked, straw in mouth, eyebrows raised.

"You got access to records, right?"

She nearly rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Gibbs, I can get anything you need on this guy. Medical reports, birth certificate, service records..."

He cleared his throat. Suddenly it was a little warm in the lab. Was it all the equipment?

"I mean, like DC city records. Births, deaths...social services..."

Abby really did roll her eyes that time. "Yes, Gibbs." She drew our his name. "What on God's green earth are you thinking now?"

"You know anything about the community outreach programs in Congress Heights?"

"Yes, because I told you about it. Did you do what I said?" Her tone was mock-stern and her hands were fists on her hips.

He nodded. "Yeah, I did. Wasted my whole damn morning 'cause the kid was hiding in the bathroom."

She was smug. "You loved it, didn't you?"

"I met a kid."

"Really? I'm shocked, as it's a program _for kids_ and all."

"Can you check the enrollment for me?" He wasn't sure what it would tell him, but the flatness of Sara's gaze had plain unnerved him, and he just couldn't help himself.

"On it, Boss." She waved her index finger in air and mock-saluted. "I'll have it for you STAT."

He sighed in some semblance of relief. "Thanks, Abby."

He waved the sign for _I love you_ and was gone.


	3. Trouble Me

Thanks for the alerts and kind reviews, folks. I really didn't think anything would come of this.

We're going outside the box with this chapter, but don't be scared, we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming by Sunday at the latest.

_ Speak to me; don't mislead me_

_ The calm I feel means a storm is swelling-_

_ There's no telling where it starts or how it ends._

_ ~10,000 Maniacs, "Trouble Me."_

She'd had a mom once; her mom was pretty and fragile and someone said that's where Sara got her eyes. They lived in a small house on a narrow street. Morning glories grew up the porch railing and the rose bush bloomed until it was cold enough to wear a winter coat every day. They had a dining room table and beds and curtains, a kitchen that was always too warm, and a television in the living room. She had boots and gloves and could make a snowman with Adam Joseph who lived next door.

But one day that changed. Mommy got sick, and then sicker, and then one morning—it was still winter—she didn't wake up. Sara didn't need Mommy to get her cereal and juice, so it wasn't weird until lunchtime went past and the house was still quiet. She went next door, not to Adam Joseph's house, but to the lady who lived on the other side. She went there and said "Mommy didn't wake up." And then there were flashing lights and tall men in blue clothes making a lot of noise on the steps and in the hallway upstairs. Sara didn't go up there; those men were a little scary. So she sat on the couch with her hands in her lap and waited for them to leave.

They did leave, but a policeman came first, asking what her name was, her address—baby stuff—and how long had mommy been sick? Maybe forever. Then came a lady in a grey wool skirt. She had a fat silver ring on her finger and a jewel on her nose. They went to Sara's room together and packed her red backpack full of clothes, then they got in her car and drove to a long room full of beds. Was it night? She couldn't remember seeing streetlights from the backseat of the car, but she was tucked into a narrow bed under a blue blanket and given a dose of bitter medicine, even though she didn't have a cough.

Early the next morning—the sky was light, but the street was dark—Sara was dropped off at a house by the river. It was big—bigger than her house with the morning glories—but colder. A family lived there. They were all different colors—the mom and dad and kids—and louder than even the men in blue clothes who went up the stairs. She was suddenly very afraid and very lonely for Mommy and their small house on the narrow street.

The house was hard to live in. It had a lot of dark closets and the grownups kept rubber hoses in their pockets for when she forgot something. They had a dining room table, just like at home, but she was not permitted to sit there, ever. When she asked politely—she knew her manners—the father had laughed so hard at her and said, "Jesus, kid, learn how to talk," and made her stand by the kitchen door all night. She didn't even get to go to bed.

But one day the lady in the wool skirt came back. The mom and dad were so surprised by her visit that they didn't even make Sara stop cleaning the oven. They skirt-lady saw her there, scrubbing and coughing and had taken her and her red backpack—it was a lot emptier now—out to her car. The drove away and Sara never saw that house again. In fact, she never saw any of her houses again.

Sara lived in another house, one far away in a place called Pencil-something, and then another one in the summer in Marelind, where she could stand on the porch—there were no morning glories on the railing—and watch the big boats come so slowly into the harbor. The houses weren't worse, but they weren't better. She got quieter and quieter. She learned how to disappear out the back or side door, down the long blocks to a playground or store where she could watch people's lives without having to worry about dark closets or rubber hoses or the fact that her belly ached all the time.

Now she lived in a skinny house that was actually two houses stuck together. The street was wide and there were bars on the windows; she guessed they were there so she couldn't get out and go to the playground. The only way she could leave was if the boy from the other part of the house walked her down to Martin's Food Store and held her hand as they crossed the busy avenue with the beeping, blinking lights and all the cars and cars. The boy who held her hand was tall and thin and had mellow brown skin. His hair was black and very tightly curled; Sara wondered if it was soft or rough. His name was Miles and she liked him. Once she came out with a bad bruise on her face and he'd taken her inside his own part of the house, where a tall woman—taller than the boy—put a cold towel on her face and brushed her hair away from her brow. It was nice. When the lady had asked what happened, the boy had said, "She don't talk, Ma."

The lady clucked her tongue. Sara noticed she was in working-people clothes like the skirt lady. Ma wiped her hands and face with the towel.

"From now on, Miles, you walk her down to the Community Center on Saturday mornings." What was a Community Center? What happened there on Saturdays? Was it good?

He sighed. "Ma, that's like...early. I got football on Fridays."

Ma's tone went sharp. "You walk her down there, son, or football ends. You hear?"

Miles held up his too-big hands. "A'ight, Ma." His eyes went white for a second and Sara realized he'd glanced at the ceiling. She looked up there, too, but there was nothing but a fan and a long cobweb.

Sara didn't know which day was Saturday, so she always checked for Miles on the porch before anyone else woke up. After some days, he was there, wearing a green t-shirt with skeletons on it. The skeletons weren't scary, they were dancing-happy. He took her hand and they walked the long blocks together. There was a rail trestle behind the Community Center, and when the trains went by, the building shook and people in the parking lot would cover their ears. Miles opened the door for her like people she saw on the television—when she could glance at it without being cuffed on the ear—and walk her inside to the last room. It was where the little kids were. He pulled her to the only empty chair and sat her in it.

"I can't pick you up, I got things to do. Walk back to Martin's by yourself and get a candy." He pressed a dollar into her grubby hands. She stuffed it in her pocket and nodded. There was no way she would buy a candy. This had to be a trick.

The lady in working-people clothes clapped her hands and all the kids got quiet. Was she going to shout at them? Maybe not; she was smiling.

"Ok, boys and girls, your reading partners are ready for you. When you see your buddy, remember to shake hands and say hello before you start your books."

Reading partners? She didn't have a reading partner. Maybe she wasn't supposed to be here. Was this part of Miles' trick? She glanced around for an escape, but saw only the door she'd come in. Now adults were coming through that door. Sliding out of her red chair, Sara tiptoed to the door and into the hallway, toward the sound of running water. A girl in a red skirt came out of another door, so she guessed it was the bathroom. She slipped in the door and into the farthest stall she could find. Closing and locking the door, she was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

When the noise died down and the last set of footsteps faded away, Sara came out of the bathroom. Glancing left and right, she stepped lightly down the hall, past the classrooms, and was nearly to the door when the lady who'd clapped called out to her.

"Hey! Where have you been?"

Sara swallowed. She was in so much trouble now.

"Um. Just...in there." She pointed to the bathroom.

"Well next time you should join us. We had a nice time reading with our friends. You're Sara, right?"

Sara nodded.

"Miles told me about you, but I thought you'd gone with him. Next week make sure I put a check next to you name."

She nodded again and left the building. Back around the corner and up the noisy street, she crossed when the beeps sounded their safety and entered Martin's store. Past the fruit and vegetables was a display of crackers. She chose one, went to the register, and handed her wrinkled dollar to the girl behind the counter who wore big hoop earrings and cracked her chewing gum. To her surprise, the girl handed her back several coins. Tucking all her things into her pockets, she left the store and headed up the block to her house.

Miles wasn't around, so she pushed open the front door and stepped inside. She could see Mr. Godwin sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper laid out before him.

"Where you been?" He shouted.

What was it called? "Comuniny Center." She mumbled.

He made a low noise between his teeth, a noise that meant she was very, very stupid. He made that noise when she was in the closet, or about to be. She glanced at the floor and her dirty sneakers, then back up to Mr. Godwin. He was looking closely at her.

"What you got in your pocket?"

Tricked. She knew it. She put the crackers and remaining thirty cents on the table and stepped back. There was a long silence.

"Who gave you this?" He demanded.

She said nothing.

"I asked you a question!" His voice rose. "You been stealing? I don't like kids that steal. They end up in jail. You know what jail is like?"

He was out of his chair before Sara could react, digging his fingers into the soft parts around her shoulder, pinching hard, pulling her across the room to the pantry. Swinging her hard by the arm, he launched her hard enough into the dark closet that she bounced against the back wall and went to her knees. He slammed the door. Inside, the only light filtered in beneath the door. Her thumb went into her mouth, but she didn't cry.

The door didn't open again for a long time. When it did, she was lead up to her bedroom, where a single mattress lay in the otherwise empty room. Behind the sheer curtains and the bars, Sara could see that it was dark outside. The streetlight by the alley shone down on two men talking quietly by a row of trashcans.

"Go to sleep," Mr. Godwin rumbled.

She didn't move. Had she even heard him?

"I said go. To. Sleep." He pushed her down on the mattress. She sprawled there, cowering. As abruptly as his violence began, it stopped. He left, slamming the door behind him.


	4. Don't Come Easy

It's Sunday, _right? _No? Sorry so late.

_ When the last bird falls_

_ and the last siren sounds_

_ someone will say what's been said before_

_ -Patty Griffin, "Don't Come Easy."_

Despite losing the evening in a bottle—the Kettle case was at a standstill and everyone was frustrated—Gibbs was up and our early the next morning. He carefully selected the same polo and jeans he'd worn last Saturday and made sure to grab his coffee close enough to home that he could drink it as he drove the thirty minutes to Congress Heights. Pulling into the weed-strewn parking lot, he checked his watch and killed the engine. Nine minutes early. The lights were on, but only one other car was in the lot. He surmised it was Mrs. Berman's.

Once in the classroom, Gibbs noticed a new bulletin board next to the bookshelf. A dozen green frogs swam on a background of blue craft paper, croaking the names of reading partners. _Emma and Lazaro_, they say in the speech bubbles of old newspaper comics. _Frank and Andrew_, _Suzanne and Erika_, _John and Michael_, _Erin and Aracelie_. Sara and Gibbs.

He smiled and hoped Sara would feel validated, maybe even special, at seeing her name on the board. His fondness for the kid had grown over the past seven days; it couldn't be helped. She was small and helpless, and that spoke to the part of him that was-_is_, he corrected—a father. Kelly's death didn't change his parenthood status. He would always be her father, even she was forever eight years old.

Ms. Berman, looking less frazzled, interrupted his reverie.

"Think the kids will like it? My high school volunteers spent an entire afternoon on that. They really hoped the little ones would feel special."

Gibbs turned, embarrassed at having been caught daydreaming.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I think they'll like it."

He could say no more. Volunteers poured in, hung their coats, and began milling around, murmuring over take-out cups of coffee and pastries. The children were due to arrive in fifteen minutes, giving the adults enough time to get assignments, choose books, get any special orders for the morning, and prepare themselves mentally for dealing with preschoolers for the next two hours.

A blonde woman—her wrinkled, liver-spotted hands revealed her facelift—approached Gibbs.

"Hey, I saw you reading to that little Mexican girl last week. Does she even speak English? I saw her before you showed up, but every time I tried to talk to her she just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language."

Gibbs bristled, even though he'd only known Sara for a week.

"She speaks English just fine, she's just selective about who she talks to. And I'm not totally sure she's Mexican."

The woman sniffed and brushed at her ponytail, jingling the dozen Tiffany bangles around her wrist.

"She ought to be a little more grateful. We don't have to be here. It's for _her_ enrichment, not ours."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

And with that, two toast-colored boys bounced in the door, slinging their backpacks down and making a run for a tall Black man seated in a very small chair.

"Franklin!" they cried, throwing their arms around him. "Franklin! Franklin!"

The reunion was sweet, but more kids came in, distracting the onlookers. Lazaro found Emma, Andrew poked at Frank's rolled shirtsleeves, Michael slapped John a high-five, Aracelie glowed as Erin exclaimed over her fancy headband. Sara was nowhere to be seen, but there was still time before she'd be considered tardy by the program. Gibbs stood by the bench—their bench—and waited.

And waited. Nearly everyone was reading, the room quiet, when a tall Black teenager entered, tugging a still-reluctant Sara by the hand. Gibbs hung back, watching. The boy reached into his pocket and tried to hand Sara something, but she shook her head, refusing to look at him. He was secretly glad—at least he wasn't the only one with whom she avoided eye contact. The boy put whatever he'd offered her back in his pocket, patted her shoulder, and left. Sara's eyes darted around the room and she spun, headed, no doubt, for the bathroom. Gibbs took the opportunity afforded him.

"Hey, Sara."

She froze.

He went on. "Remember me?"

No response, but she didn't cut and run.

"There's a frog saying our names on the bulletin board. Did you see that?"

He pointed and she stared, blank-eyed and unimpressed at the sea of frogs. He dropped his arm.

"Should we read about the farmer again, or choose another book?"

Slowly she turned, glancing first at his hands—resting easily at his sides—and then to the bookshelf before taking a breath.

"Maybenudderone."

"Ok."

He wanted to make some friendly approach, to pat her shoulder or take her hand as the boy had, but she flinched and stepped out of reach. Dropping his hand, he moved to the bookshelf. He waited for her to make a choice, rather than him. She reached for a slim blue book, tugged it off the shelf, and handed it to him without looking at the cover.

"This one?"

Shrug.

"Ok."

He started toward the bench and she followed, but not before the took the book back from him. Settling down, she handed it back.

"_It was late one winter night,_" Gibbs read, "_When Pa and I went owling."_

Again, Sara sat at the opposite end of the bench but made it clear to him that she was listening. Turned towards him, she stretched to see the pictures right before he could turn the page.

"_We went into the woods. The shadows were the blackest I have ever seen. They stained the white snow._"

He stole a glance at her and wondered if she was troubled by the scary scene. She didn't appear to be upset, only curious about why he'd stopped.

"_When you go owling, you have to be brave."_

He seized his moment.

"I bet you're brave, Sara."

_Should she patent that blank stare?_

"I bet you are. You're pretty brave to come here every week and read with me."

Blank, still. And he found himself floundering; maybe he should change tactics.

"Was that your friend who came in this morning? Or your brother?"

"No." She was so quiet. "Das Miles. He lives by me. My porch an' his porch..."

She trailed off, but put her open hands side-by-side, trying to show him how the two porches sat in close proximity to one another.

"Do you live in the neighborhood?"

"Um. Yes? 'S' no farwalking. Wif Miles."

"You walk here with Miles and it's not very far."

"Yeh."

"That's good. Because if it was a long walk, you'd probably be too tired to read with me. I'd be disappointed."

She looked at him sideways and almost..._almost_ smiled, but looked away again. He sensed that she was someplace else entirely, even though she hadn't left his side.

"Sara? What's your last name?"

"Cohen." Her speech was clear, her voice a little higher.

"Sara Cohen. That's a great name. It makes you sound very important."

"Sara Cohen, did you know that Gibbs isn't my given name? It's my last name. Do you know how funny my first name is?"

Blank stare.

"My first name is Leroy. Leroy Gibbs. Isn't that a funny name?"

She nodded, eyes still vague. He'd hoped for a different reaction.

"Im not'portant."

"What?"

"I'm not 'portant. Huh uh. Not."

Now it was his turn to stare. What was she telling him?

"Not 'portant. Not _regular_ kid."

It dawned on him that while he didn't understand what she was saying, he was acutely aware that his heart was about to be broken. One one hand he didn't want to hear this, and on the other he really, really did.

"I'm not a 'portant regular kid," she said slowly. "I'm a foster kid."

Sara said _foster kid _the way most people say _anthrax_ or _terrorism_ or _weeping sores_. Suddenly the book was very small and his hands were very large. He kept his voice low and his tone gentle, afraid she's startle like a fawn and head off into darkest reaches of the woods.

"Being a foster kid doesn't make you unimportant. You're still a regular kid, even thought you night not live with your parents."

Gibbs held back a sigh. He knew about foster kids—mistreated by their families, shuffled like cards by the system, doled out to homes that were as bad or worse. They had poor high school graduation rates and good chances of ended up perpetuating the cycle of violence on their own children. But if this lie was going to do something for Sara—brighten her flat gaze or give her enough hope to come back next week—then it was worth it.

She looked at the book in his hands.

"Maybefinish?"

"_When you go owling, you don't need words or warm or anything but hope. That's what Pa says. The kind of hope that flies on silent wings under a shining owl moon_."

Because she was late, and because reading to Sara took longer than reading to most other children—Gibbs liked to lengthen the pages; he liked to think the imaginative work-out was good for both of them—Mrs. Berman was calling the children to clean up and gather their belongings. Sara sat, frozen as the trees in their story. She didn't _want_ to go home. She didn't want to walk past Martin's Store and up the block to her street. She wanted to stay with Gibbs, even if it meant sitting on the hard bench and listening to stories all day.

"Time to go, Sar."

"Dun'wan'to."

"Next week, ok? Come right back next week and we'll read again. And maybe we'll read fast and then draw or something. Ok?"

He was surprised by the level of desperation in his own voice. His gut was telling him in no uncertain terms that she was leaving here for an unsafe world. His flesh crawled with self-loathing for allowing it to happen, but legally, there was little he could do. She hadn't disclosed any abuse, so any action he took now would likely backfire. He swallowed back a vague plan and brushed the back of knuckles against Sara's hand. She didn't pull away.

"Go now, ok? And next week we'll be together again. It'll be ok, Sar. Ok? Trust me."

She looked at him. _Really_ looked at him; her seawater eyes met his and Gibbs realized that she didn't trust him. He was shocked at how much it hurt to know that; his whole life had been dedicated to _making it ok_ and this was one of only a few times that he couldn't.

She slid off the bench and took quiet, measured steps to the classroom door.

"I'm comin' back. Saturday. You, too."

She was gone, and he was alone with the frogs.

Gibbs stood, knees creaking, stomach churning, and walked dazedly out the door and to his car. Settling into the driver's seat, he sighed, cursed the system, and pulled our his mobile phone.

"Abbs? Yeah, I need you to run a search for me. Got any time this afternoon?"


	5. The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts

_ Trouble falls in my home_

_ Troubled man, troubled stone_

_ Turn a mountain of lies _

_ Turn a card for my life_

_ -Sufjan Stevens, "The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts"_

Come Monday afternoon, they had not a single lead in the case, and Staff Sergeant Joseph Kettle was still very dead. Abby confirmed that the COD had been an overdose, which doused much of the team's hope for an open-and-shut. Tony and Tim had gone as far as an overnight surveillance of the St. Elizabeth's Hospital campus, and the only thing they'd received for their troubles was sleep deprivation and a handful of paper footballs.

Gibbs settled behind his desk with a sigh. Behind the bookshelf, Ziva sighed. She'd been charged with finding and contacting people who had known Staff Sergeant Kettle and while her list grew shorter and shorter every hour, so did her access to pertinent information. There was no documentation of a marriage or children, his parents had died not long after his honorable discharge—Kettle had been injured by mortar fire in Pakistan—and other acquaintances were few and far between. His landlord had been a senile old woman who spent the entire conversation debating the merits of the 1969 NASA moon landing. A friend from high school had a disconnected phone and an address in Frostburg, Maryland that didn't exist.

Gibbs was about to give in for the evening—send them home or out for a beer—when Ziva crowed _HA!_ and pranced over to the plasma.

"I just got off the phone with a woman named Priya Sen; she recognized Kettle's photo from the news report. Apparently he lived briefly with a woman on Sen's street. She remembers them from a particularly bad fight they'd had; she threw him out, and he stood in the street for nearly an hour begging for forgiveness. At four in the morning. Every person on the block called the police."

Gibbs' interest was piqued. "Where?"

"Alexandria."

"When?"

"Nearly six years ago."

The whole team sighed. They would talk to Sen, sure, but the interview would yield little valuable information after so much time. And, while they wouldn't admit it even to themselves, there was a very good chance that their contact even had the right person. Eyewitnesses were notorious for misinformation, and a four am lover's quarrel was not the best way to a positive ID.

"Tony, Ziva, you two head over to Alexandria to speak to Mrs. Sen. Tim, get ahold of Alexandria PD and get the police report from the fight. If this lady is right, I want to follow the paper trail."

"On it, Boss."

He always half-expected them to clap like football players breaking a huddle. He hunched back behind his desk. Grabbing his coffee he headed for the elevator.

Abby was hunched over a microscope when he came in, no doubt re-analyzing soil samples from the hole where Tim had found the syringes. The first sample had come back inconclusive and she just wasn't satisfied with that. As usual, he startled her.

"Hey Abbs. What've ya got?"

She jumped and spun, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm going to put a bell on you. Why in heaven's name do you insist on doing that?"

"Just," he drawled, "keepin' ya on your toes, Abbs."

She rolled her eyes. "I wear platforms for that, Gibbs."

He cleared his throat.

"Ok, so I found six kids with the same name in D.C's Children and Family Services Agency. They range in age from fifteen to five. Most are placed in the city, except for one eight-year-old. She's in Silver Spring, Maryland under joint supervision with Jewish Family Services."

"Tell me about the little one."

"Born at G-Dub Medical Center on June ninth, she was a healthy seven-pound baby with a head of black hair..." She trailed off and brought up a picture of a surly, dark-haired newborn on the monitor. He drew a breath; the eyes were the giveaway. Seawater green, even hour after she'd been born.

"She was bottle-fed and has no father's name on her birth certificate. Her mother died at home of acute meningitis fifteen months ago, and social services picked her up when she told a neighbor that her mother hadn't woken up that morning. Paramedics were sent, and then the coroner. She'd probably gotten no closure, she was just...taken away."

Gibbs grunted and then they were quiet for a long moment.

"And?"

Abby didn't respond for a long moment.

"Gibbs, the rest of this stuff is just going to break your heart. She's been pushed around, literally and figuratively. She's been abused. There are several hospital reports, the most recent one in her file is from four months ago. It was basically a laundry list of textbook battered-child injuries that received no proper treatment. Broken bones, burns, contusions, a skull fracture..." She handed him a think manilla folder—Sara's file, no doubt.

"Read this and then come see me. We'll make a plan."

He loved that she knew him so well, but was still a little surprised at how she could read him.

"Got anything else on Kettle yet?"

She growled in frustration and whirled back toward him. "The guy was discharged and _that was it_, Gibbs. It's like he ceased to exist."

"Ziva and Tony are out talking to a former neighbor."

Abby's eyes lit up. "You found somebody?"

"Well, sort of. She witnessed Kettle in an early-morning lover's quarrel a while ago. Said there are police reports. McGee's on it."

She blanched. "That's far-flung, to say the least. I guess it's worth it, though. We have absolutely nothing else. You never know, maybe it'll work like one of those 'six-degrees' things. One time I discovered that my brother and Kevin Bacon both saw Sonic Death Monkeys at the 9:30 Club in '96. And my cousin Audrey Claire once competed in a cheerleading competition against Sela Ward's high school. Maybe this'll be like that."

"Yeah. Maybe, Abbs. And thanks." He waved the folder at her.

She flapped a hand at him. "That's baby stuff, Gibbs. Baby stuff. And where's my...?"

He handed over the plastic cup. She smiled around the straw, gulped, and waved goodbye at the closing elevator doors.

While rush hour on 395 had set them back, Tony and Ziva pulled up to Mrs. Sen's Parker-Gray townhouse in fairly short order. A small, fiftyish Bengali woman wearing stylish square-framed glasses and a berry-red twinset greeted them on the porch.

"Are you from the agency I called this morning?"

Tony put on his winningest smile. "Absolutely, Mrs. Sen. I'm Special Agent Tony DiNozzo and this is Ziva David. Care to answer a few questions for us?

"Not at all. Let me make us some tea."

The followed her inside, removing their shoes and placing them on a low shelf to the left of the door. While her accent gave away her Indian birth and education, the townhouse was decidedly western in décor. Only the small, colorful image of the goddess Kali—topless, wielding a dagger—indicated that Mrs. Sen was not apple-pie American. She returned with a tray bearing steaming chai tea in delicate bone china cups and austere biscuits for dipping. Ziva, anxious to get the story straight, was the first to speak.

"Mrs. Sen, is this the man you recall from that morning you spoke of on the phone?"

Ziva passed Staff Sergeant Kettle's last professional photo across the low table. Mrs. Sen eyed it for only a second before agreeing that it was.

"Are you sure, Mrs. Sen? The light is very dim at four in the morning, and if you were woken by the fight, it might be easy to get confused."

"I know it was that man, Agent David, he was standing directly under the streetlight. His features were as clear as if it were midday. Apparently he'd been asked to leave the home. He was pleading with the woman to forgive him."

"And how do you know the person in the house was a woman?"

"I'd seen them in the neighborhood. And a man would never beg like that for anyone but a woman with whom he was madly in love."

"Do you know this woman's name? Does she still live here?"

"No, I do not. I'd never actually met her, my familiarity is only from the people I would see on my evening walk. I'm not even positive which house was hers, though I know it was on this block and on the same side of the street. Perhaps Mr. Kreidel can help you; he's been a property owner on this street for as long as I've lived here."

She stood and moved across the room to a tall secretary's desk on the opposite wall. Opening the top, she shuffled through a handful of business cards before selecting one and handing it to Ziva.

"Here is his card. I'm certain you can call him at any time."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sen. Also, how many years have you lived on this street?"

"I moved here after my husband died. That was," she trailed off and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, thinking. "Sixteen years ago this May."

The agents rose and donned their shoes. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sen."

She smiled. "I have lived here for thirty years, and I will never understand this policy of thank-you. The woman at the supermarket thanks me, the man at the post office thanks me, the children thank me for Halloween candy. If I am buried in this country I will surely be thanked at my funeral."

Ziva chuckled, and professed that she understood. She, too, came from a country where common courtesy wasn't all that common. When there was a high premium for survival, a little pushing and shoving were forgiven quickly. Mrs. Sen bid them a good evening and closed the door behind them. Tony turned down the block toward the streetlight Mrs. Sen had indicated.

"Directly across, do you think? Or maybe kitty-corner?"

"Let's just take down the addresses of those three houses," she swept her arm toward the homes that would be within the ring of light, "and call Mr. Kreidel. I'm sure he'll be able to give us some more specific information."

He nodded. "You want dinner? It's getting late and I'm sure everyone will be gone by the time we get back. We got full-on rush hour ahead of us. But it's ok! We can think of it as bonding time."

He'd pushed it around all evening. The plain manila folder lay first on the coffee table, then on the dining table, and now on the workbench between his socket wrench set and his new belt sander. Now, at ten-thirty, with a cheeseburger and several beers in him, he found the courage to open it.

The first document was Sara's birth certificate and photo, both of which he'd seen in Abby's lab. The second was the report from the paramedics who'd been called to the home by the neighbor, the third from the coroner, the forth an intake form from the DC Child and Family Services Agency for her first night in District custody. The others were reports from several different social workers; it seemed that Sara's file had been pushed from one desk to another, and Sara herself had been shuffled to four different homes in fifteen months, as well as a few week-long stays in a shelter on N Street.

A Suspicion of Abuse report from her first home made him regret the beer. An ER visit found bruises, chemical burns on her hands, a healing humeral fracture, and a mild case of post-concussive syndrome. The transcript of a short interview disclosed that Sara had been beaten daily with a rubber hose and was dangled over a second-floor banister by her arm for "doing all the things wrong." The hospital had taken photographs of bruises on her back, arms, chest, neck, face, and behind. Her was in a sling, but still hung at an odd angle. Sara's troubles earned her the first stay at N Street Village and an evaluation by a psychiatrist: _Sara demonstrates significant language delays. Vocabulary and syntax are not age-appropriate. Fine motor skills also delayed, but not as seriously. Recommended: evaluation for speech therapy, occupational therapy, and possible spectrum disorder testing. Scrip: Paxil for anxiety. _

No reports had been filed since her last transfer. She'd been placed with the Marion family of Congress Heights, and apparently the neighbor boy—Miles-had made sure she'd ended up at the Community Center for reading time. Gibbs wanted to know how the kid had known about the program. Maybe there was a way to talk to him about what Sara was experiencing at home.

There was no doubt in his mind that the abuse was still going on. The way she flinched, the sideways glances, the way she so readily put herself down. If he filed a report to CFSA, one of two things would happen: either the agency would yank her out of the home and he'd never see her again, or they'd take the report and do nothing while the abuse continued. Both outcomes made his head ache. There had to be another way. Did he know someone? Could he pull some strings?

Closing the file, he picked up a sanding block and poured himself a finger of bourbon. This was going to be the first of many long nights.


	6. Sons and Daughters

_ When we arrive, sons and daughters,_

_ we'll make our homes on the water._

_ We'll build our walls of aluminum._

_ We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon._

_ -The Decemberists, "Sons and Daughters."_

Ziva placed the phone on the receiver and lost whatever modicum of hope she'd hat when she'd picked it up and dialed. She'd spoken Mr. Kreidel,whose name she'd received from Mrs. Sen in Alexandria. He did remember Staff Sergeant Kettle, as the lover's quarrel with his tenant had earned him—the landlord and responsible party for the property—several noise complaints from the local PD. Otherwise, Kreidel's tenant, Elana Cohen, was quiet, respectful, and responsible. Kreidel hadn't even had to bring up the noise complaints, as she'd enclosed a note of apology with the rent that month.

But Elana Cohen was dead. She died in the house of acute meningitis just months after the incident with Kettle. Her three year old daughter had been placed in the custody of CFSA and shipped off to parts unknown. Even if they could track down the girl, would it be worth it? Could she have any relevant information that would help them figure out what had happened to Kettle? Ziva stood, texted Abby to have her pull the kid's online file, and turned to Gibbs, sighing.

"Well," she started. Gibbs gaze was already heavy on her shoulders. "Kreidel gave us little except his tenant's name, but she's dead. I have Abby pulling her child's file from social services."

"And?"

"And the little girl's name is Sara Cohen. Her mother died of meningitis a little more than a year ago. Kreidel has since rented the apartment to another family and they have no connection to Kettle at all."

Gibbs didn't pull his gaze from Ziva's face. He took a breath and tried to keep his voice steady. "What's the girl's name again?"

"Sara Cohen."

The bullpen got smaller and noisier. Gibbs swallowed hard, but kept his face impassive.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

Ziva was annoyed; she's done the research, followed the leads and NCIS protocol. "Yes, Gibbs, I'm sure. Kreidel confirmed her name and age, and that she was placed in DC custody."

His stomach churned. No. This was not how it was supposed to go. He was going to document the bruises, speak to the boy named Miles, corroborate with Mrs. Berman, file reports with social services, speak to judges and lawyers and guardians at litem. He had planned slowly and carefully to prevent backfire or loss to the vortex of government bureaucracy. Now, well...now was something else.

"We should bring her in," he started. see if she remembers anything. This guy didn't just OD; there are too many inconclusive tests, too much of the story is untold. We need more, and maybe she can give us something. Abby's on it?"

Ziva nodded.

Making his way to the elevator was like wading through molasses. The bullpen was noisy with ringing telephones and keyboard-hacking, but the quiet of the elevator just increased the roar in his head. Did his volunteering at the community center require him to step off the case? As much as he wanted to protect Sara, the thought of pulling away from his team was much more intimidating.

The war in his head only grew more violent as he stepped into the lab. The music wasn't on, which meant Abby was either on the phone with someone important, or waiting for him because they had important things to discuss. He was right on both counts.

She was hunched over, telephone in one hand and pencil in the other. He guessed she was taking down an address by the _uh huhs_ and commensurate scribbling, the hung up abruptly when he put a Caf-Pow down in front of her.

"Gibbs, I had no idea."

He sighed and had nothing to say. Neither of them expected this; not the case, not the kid, not this connection that brought them to the here and now. She hadn't bullied him into volunteering for any reason other than to get him out of his own headspace for a few hours each week. Abby knew by the look on his face that things were going to get much more complicated than this. She took the reigns.

"I'll get her in here. Send Tony and Tim to pick her up. Then let Ziva ask the questions. She's great with kids."

They were quiet for a long time. Even though neither of them moved to touch the other, they shared a few moments of each other's company. The two of them centered each other when the world went askew.

He followed the pattern in the floor tiles with his eyes, and when he looked up again, Abby had gotten closer to him. They were brow-to-nose now, and she was speaking softly.

"Maybe this is good. Maybe this is how we can make things better, you know? I know it doesn't work like that, but I think it's worth hoping."

Abby pressed her chin to Gibbs' shoulder, tucking herself into him like a child.

"I have to hope, Gibbs. Or it'll be bad."

He nodded, embraced her for a second, then stepped back to think. He needed a minute before reentering the boisterous bullpen. The stairs would have to do. He made to leave.

"Me, too, Abbs." He was not facing her; rather, he seemed to be addressing the open stairway. "I need to hope, too."

And like that, Tim and Tony were sent to the Marion residence in Congress Heights; a gentrified townhouse development on an otherwise neglected avenue in Southeast Washington DC. It was a lonely drive; the eyeless, abandoned high-rise housing projects, the corner stores where drunks bought forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor and sat idly on milk crates outside the bulletproof doors, children alternating fights and games of handball in the worn playgrounds. Tony thought of Baltimore and shuddered. He didn't like these neighborhoods. He knew about poverty, though he didn't live it, he knew about violence and drug-turf wars and prostitution; these things did not surprise nor disgust him. What he couldn't stomach was the hopelessness. People lived here not because they were poor or addicted or without anchor; no, people lived here because they'd given up hope on themselves, their families, and their communities.

A few years ago, Tony had quietly begun to donate money to a neighborhood coalition in Baltimore; a grandmother who was raising a family south of Pimlico in a drug-addled, gang-run neighborhood had begun to invite gang members into her house on the premise that if they had a place to go they wouldn't be out dealing or shooting or stealing. Over the course of five years she set up an educational center, a vocational center, and a mentoring program, first our of her own living room, then out of a bombed-out church she bought at a city auction and remodeled with donated money and help. Tony had been one of her first and largest benefactors, and he was proud of the work she did. Now, over eighty percent of the (former) gang members were gainfully employed and upright citizens. And furthermore, they went back to Grandma and did the right thing; they paid it forward. Congress Heights needed a Grandma, but right now, it needed a social worker to show up and help them issue the warrant for Sara Cohen's statement.

Tim drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

"How long have we been waiting?"

Tony looked at first his watch, then his phone.

"More thirty-four minutes and counting. If she's not here soon we do it ourselves. I've had enough and I'm sure Gibbs will want to get this kid interviewed and back home before bedtime."

Tim said nothing. He seriously doubted Sara Cohen had a bedtime, and if she did, interruptions from police sirens and traffic noise were probably a frequent interruption.

Tony checked his watch once more and looked up to find an old Honda Civic pulling into the space in front of him. A harried looking woman in her mid-thirties got out and approached the Challenger.

"Agents DiNozzo and McGee?"

They identified themselves with their badges.

"Susan McNamyre. Let's go. I have nine visits to get done today and this is not the most urgent."

They climbed the stairs and rang the bell, but no one answered. Knocking loudly, then louder finally brought a forty-ish man to the door.

"Can I help you?" His tone indicated that he certainly did not wish to help them, but Tony pressed forward.

"Mr. Godwin, is Ms. Marion here?"

"No," he grunted. He offered no explanation and fixed Susan with a scowling stare. She pushed on. "I'm here to retrieve Sara. NCIS needs her for questioning."

Tony broke in, keeping his tone clipped and professional. He did not smile. "I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. We're here for Sara Cohen; we believe she has important information about a possible homicide."

The man gaped at them for a moment, but recovered, craned his neck toward the interior, and hollered.

"_Sara!_ Get down here. Ms. Susan is here to pick you up."

From what Tony could see from his position on the stoop, the house was sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean. Nothing moved; despite the man's bellowing, there was no indication that another person was inside. The man had opened his mouth to yell again, when shadows moved from behind the door, where Tony supposed there were stairs to the second floor. A small head—dark and curly—peeked between Godwin and the doorframe. Susan gestured to her.

"Come on, Sara. You have an important job this afternoon. These two federal agents, Agent DiNozzo and Agent McGee are going to talk to you." She gestured to each of them as she said their names. "But we need to go to their office to do that because it's official stuff. Now get your backpack. You can do some schoolwork while we wait."

The little head disappeared, then reappeared seconds later. Godwin moved aside to let her out. Sara stepped onto the porch and Susan reached down to take her hand, but not before turning back to the man in the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Godwin. We'll be in touch."

He didn't respond other than to slam the door behind them. Sara jumped but didn't take Susan's proffered hand. The foursome moved down the stairs to the sidewalk, where Sara paused between the two vehicles, clearly not sure which one to enter. Tony gently patted her on the shoulder, but she stayed stiff, frozen, even though the day was mild.

"C'mon, kid. You're with us." He smiled at her, but her gaze was locked on the curb. "Come on, just hop on in the back seat and I'll help you buckle up."

Sara turned to look at Susan, but she was already in her car with her keys in the ignition, studying her phone for directions to her next visit. She spoke without looking up.

"Get in the car with Agent DiNozzo, Sara. You need to go with them. I have to go see other kids, but I'll check in with you tomorrow."

Tony almost snorted. He had been a cop long enough to know an empty promise and a lonely kid long enough to know that Sara didn't believe her, either. Regardless, Sara allowed him to buckle her into the backseat and plunk her red backpack on the floor next to her feet. With the two agents in the front seat, she dropped her chin to her chest and picked idly at the raw skin in the web between her thumb and index finger. She was lulled into a stupor the second the car pulled away from the curb, and, absently, her thumb went into her mouth. They'd only traveled a miles or two when Tony turned around to speak to her. She yanked her thumb our of her mouth; she couldn't be in trouble with these two—they looked like they could put her in jail.

"Want something to eat?"

He was smiling. Sara noticed that his teeth were straight and white and his shirt was clean. He looked okay, she guessed, but, fearing it was a trick, she declined, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

"Ok, kiddo. Suit yourself. But Beltway Burgers are like a tasty, tasty kick in the tongue. You sure you don't want even a soda?"

She shook her head again. He turned back around and faced the intersection, where Martin's Food Store lazed close to the curb. His smile faded.

"Yeah, me either, kid. This place makes me too sad to eat." He pulled down his sun visor and opened the vanity mirror so he could keep an eye on her without being too obvious. She could be a poster child for the neglected and forgotten of Washington DC. Slouched in her dirty t-shirt, curls uncombed, she was the kind of kid who would want a gang or a posee to cover her nakedness, her vulnerability, the possibility of victimhood. He was headed _there—_the places within himself that knew how to navigate the crushing loneliness of having been abandoned—but the tired rumbled and he snapped out of his reverie with a shudder. Tim had been silent in the duration of their drive, and how they were crossing the Eleventh Street Bridge. Just across it was the Navy Yard, the bullpen, and the florescent lights of an interrogation room. Tony sighed, took out his smartphone, and donated another thousand dollars to Grandma in Baltimore, south of Pimlico.


	7. Have You Seen Me Lately?

Thanks for all the reviews, but a special shout-out to Moshe. Thanks for giving this a chance. Your review was meaningful to me.

_ I remember me,_

_ And all the little things that make up a memory._

_ She said she loved to watch me sleep._

_ -Counting Crows, "Have You Seen Me Lately?"_

Tony and Tim had lead Sara from the garage to the elevator to the interrogation room. Now she sat, quiet and stiff. Gibbs and Ziva watched from behind the two-way mirror.

"She's just sitting there," Ziva observed quietly. "She hasn't even looked at the pens and paper Tim brought for her."

Tim had placed a few pens and pieces of paper on the table in front of her—a feeble attempt to entertain her while they fetched paperwork and set up video recorders. Sara had barely acknowledged the presence of the utensils, much as she barely acknowledged anything else they'd presented to her. Tim could not elicit any sort of reaction from her, not with questions, not with art supplies, not even with candy. She just sat in the chair facing the mirror, hands on her knees, sight fixed somewhere between the edge of the table and the floor.

Ziva decided it was time. She gathered the photographs, opened the door, and stepped inside. Sara did not raise her head, nor respond in any way.

"Hello, Sara. My name is Ziva. I'm an investigator like Tony and Tim, the two men who brought you here. How are you today?" She kept her voice light and even, her posture casual, and her hands visible.

"I have some photographs here. My friends and I think you might know the person in the picture. Can you take a look for me?"

No response.

"It's ok to be afraid. I know this place can be scary sometimes. It was very noisy out there where all the people are, huh?"

Silence. Not a twitch, not a blink.

"I'm going to put the pictures here. You look when you're ready."

Ziva placed the photos on the table and oriented them so Sara could see them easily. She didn't look up, not even when Ziva settled back in her chair and opened the case folder, waiting for Sara to move.

Nothing. Not a word, not a gesture, not even an unsteady breath. Ziva waited twenty long minutes before sitting up in her seat, closing the folder, and gathering the pictures.

"I'd really like it if you could help us, but I understand if you don't want to or you're not ready. If you wait here for a minute, I'll get Tony and Tim to take you home. Thank you for coming. You've been very brave." Ziva made her exit.

Gibbs had watched the entire exchange from the observation room. Ziva was flustered, but not angry when she closed the door and stepped close to him.

"I don't know if that means she knows something or not. She didn't even blink, Gibbs. It was totally unnerving to speak to her. Maybe she should apply for a position with Mossad."

Gibbs couldn't help but smirk. Taking the folder and photographs from her, he entered the room, closing the door behind him. Sara made no effort to see who had entered, so he sat down quietly, placed the folder in front of him, and folded his hands on the tabletop.

"Hello, Sara."

She startled. Her head jerked up, eyes wide. Eyes _wild_, Gibbs noticed.

"Gibbs?"

"You remember me?" He teased gently, smiling. "Wasn't sure you would. It's been four whole days since I saw you."

"I 'member you," she mumbled, looking down at her hands on her knees. A long moment passed. Gibbs was about to push forward with the questions when she blurted "Is this _jail_?"

Her voice was thick, tearful. Apparently someone had threatened her or played on her fears.

"_I don't want to go to jail."_

She was dangerously close to a meltdown—so terrified they'd never get anything from her if this went on. He inched closer to the table and put his hands out to her. She simply stared at him, eyes wet.

"This is _not_ jail. This is a place where we solve crimes, not a place where people get punished."

It wasn't quite the truth, but it was something to say. Was he assuaging her fears? He could only hope.

"Can you help us solve a crime?"

Another long moment passed but this time Sara's eyes darted around the room. She took in the table, his hands—still stretched out to her—the mirror, the soundproof tiles, the video recorder high in the corner.

"I don't want to go to jail." Her voice was softer this time, less frightened.

"No one, not person in this whole building, is going to put you in jail. That I can promise you."

She thought for a second, then added, "Noteven if I'm baddest?"

"No. Not even if you're the worst kid in history."

"_I'mafosserkid_," she challenged, as if it was either equal to being _really, really bad, _or a factor that might make Gibbs rethink his whole no-jail-time thing.

"I know you're a foster kid. That doesn't mean you're bad and it doesn't mean you belong in jail." He made sure to make eye contact as he spoke. She returned his gaze, but fidgeted the tiniest bit when he brought out the photographs again of Staff Sergeant Kettle.

"Sara, do you recognize the man in these pictures?"

She didn't look at the photos and didn't answer his question, but pressed the tips of her fingers against the edge of the table. Her nail beds turned white from the pressure.

"Sara? You with me?"

She looked to the door. "Where'seh lady?"

"You mean Ziva?"

She hummed affirmatively.

"She's probably at her desk, working. Would you like me to see if she wants to come back in here?"

Sara shrugged.

Gibbs wasn't above bribery. "How about this: if you answer my question, I'll have Ziva come in and sit with you for a few minutes. Ok?" He pushed the pictures close to her. "Now, do you recognize this man?"

She studied each of them carefully, using the index finger of her left hand to push the three photos together, edge to edge, as if she was a filmmaker and the photos were animation cells. She focused the longest on Kettle's last professional photo—stern in his uniform, Gibbs could see how he would cut an imposing figure to a small child.

"Do you know him?"

She looked up at Gibbs, eyes wide. "Yeh."

"Can you tell me his name?"

"Joey."

"And how do you know Joey?"

"Lived my house."

"Joey lived in your house?"

She hummed again, affirmative.

"My lellow house. With Mommy."

He didn't take notes; his focus would improve her focus and the video camera could do its job.

"Was he your uncle? Maybe Mommy's friend?"

"Bo'frind."

"So Joey was your mommy's boyfriend? Was he nice a nice man?"

She hummed again, and dropped her gaze from the photo and stared at her nails, still white on the edge of the table. "Where'seh lady?"

"Thanks so much, Sara. I'm going to step out and ask Ziva to come in, ok?"

From the observation room, Gibbs watched Ziva and Sara interacting. While Sara was clearly shy and not particularly responsive, her posture indicated that she genuinely enjoy the company. Ziva had spent the greater part of the last fifteen minutes telling a story and illustrating it with the pens McGee had provided. McGee appeared next to him carrying a cotton swab and a handful of paperwork.

"CFSA has asked for a DNA sample. If we can prove that Sara is Kettle's daughter, they're release her file from the absent-parent holding pattern and push her status to 'adoptable'."

Gibbs couldn't allow himself to be hopeful. At her age and with her background of abuse it would be nothing short of a miracle for someone to adopt Sara. Permanent foster placement until age eighteen was her best and most probable bet. Still, he handed the swab off to Ziva and told her to wait; Abby would surely be up to observe the procedure and collect the sample.

He no sooner walked back out of the room when his phone buzzed.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

He bounced up the stairs and into Vance's office without knocking.

"What's going on, Leon?"

"Why did I have to hear from Abby that you're connected to the case?"

"Didn't think it was relevant."

"Not relevant? Gibbs, you have a personal relationship to the only person who may have known Kettle. And she's a child, for heaven's sake. You should have taken yourself off this case the minute her name was said in the bullpen."

"Leon, I read her a few picture books. I wouldn't call that a relationship."

"Would the kid agree with you?"

Gibbs shut his mouth. Sara was notoriously quiet, unnervingly so. How could he be expected to know how she felt? Was he something to her other than an old man who read to her once a week? What about now, after he'd pulled her out of her house and made her sit for two hours in a windowless room and answer questions about a man she could barely recall? He swallowed. Damn, he wanted a coffee.

"I don't know, Leon. I haven't asked her for a play date yet. Think she'll come over for a tea party?"

Vance fairly growled. "Gibbs, you had better drop the attitude, get your act together, and go home. You're off this case and your insolence has earned you a few days off."

"How many?"

"Until I say so. You can keep your gun and you're with pay. I'll call you Monday morning with an update."

Gibbs turned to go, but Vance's voice stopped him. "I know you think something is up with the kid, Gibbs. Keep your head on straight."

"Yes, sir." And he left, but not before stopping by Interrogation. He poked his head in the door. Ziva and Sara were still seated at the table, which was not littered with papers bearing Ziva's little sketch cartoons.

"Sara, I have to go, but I'll see you Saturday morning at the Community Center, ok?"

She looked at him, surprised. Her seawater eyes glowed under the harsh lights. "Ok, Gibbs. Sadurdee. See you."

He nodded to Ziva, who surely knew something was up. He expected a visit from her later, possibly with dinner in hand. Closing the door, his heart grew heavier. This had been his chance, and there was a good possiblity that he'd blown it. He needed to build a gunwale, have a few drinks, and think about what he'd done.

He didn't have to wait long. Ziva appeared bearing pizza at ten minutes to six. He was already in the basement and several fingers into a bottle of bourbon. She sat on the bottom steps, two paper plates of mushroom pizza on her knees. Handing one off to him, they ate in silence. Only after they polished off two slices apiece did she speak up.

"Tony and McGee took her home, but not before Ducky documented and photographed the bruises. We have all filed corroborating reports with social services. They're running an investigation as we speak."

He chewed thoughtfully, grateful to have something to sop up the alcohol in his stomach.

"You heard I'm out, right?"

She nodded. Vance had announced it as soon as Gibbs was off the Navy Yard property. Tony was in charge—power he was intent to exploit, of course—for the duration.

"Have you run a background check on Sara's foster parents?"

Ziva shook her head. "No, but social services does all kinds of history reports on foster parents and makes them take classes before they can even enroll in the program. There wouldn't be anything on them that could be relevant—they were too far removed from Staff Sergeant Kettle."

Gibbs wasn't so sure; his work with NCIS taught him that perfect strangers could be anything but.

"Just run it for me, ok, Ziver?"

"All right, Boss." She laid her empty plate on the step next to her. "But only if you share." She pointed at the bottle of Maker's Mark, then dropped her head to her hands, rubbed the bridge of her nose and scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. Any case involving a child was difficult, but bruised, silent Sara was an indication of how powerless they could be, even as federal agents. They couldn't follow her home, they couldn't protect her from whatever violence could be visited upon her even while CFSA conducted its investigation into her well-being. She accepted the jar and the two of them drank deeply. When Ziva spoke again, she did slow slowly.

"I just hope that...whatever happens...it'll be enough to keep her safe. This is the wealthiest, most privileged country in the world, Gibbs. Why can't we keep our kids safe?"

He wasn't in the mood to wax philosophical; there were a thousand answers to her question, but each one felt like a meaningless platitude. He kept his mouth shut, threw the plates away, and poured them each another drink. Maybe they'd find sleep at the bottom of the bottle.


	8. Running Up That Hill

_Unaware I'm tearing you asunder._

_ There is thunder in our hearts._

_ -Kate Bush, "Running Up That Hill"_

She thought the men might just drop her off on the curb and leave, but they walked her all the way up to the front door, knocked, and waited for Mr. Godwin to answer and bring her inside. That had been hours ago. Now she stood in the kitchen, facing the wall—where Mr. Godwin had ordered her to stand—while he paced around the house, screaming about _the goddamned feebies knowing his business. _And _what the hell was the matter with her, anyway?_

She was exhausted. Her legs ached from standing, but moving from her spot by the door was not an option The kitchen had grown dark while he was ranting and raving, and he walked in abruptly and switched on the ceiling lights. She didn't turn around.

"Don't you _think_ for a _minute_ I won't be dealing with kids who rat me our to the feebies. Don't you _even think about it._" Mr. Godwin took off his belt and wound the buckle end one-two-three times around the palm of his hand. He came across the kitchen in one stride, grabbed her arm, yanked her off her feet and landed a bevvy of quick blows so fast and sharp it took her breath away. Her back was fire and he'd barely started.

"I am going to deal with you, Sara." He hadn't let go of her arm and he used it to swing her into the wall, pinning her with his knee, grinding his forearm into her throat. There was no air, and her vision narrowed to pinpricks, as if she was staring at him through two long straws. Godwin lowered his face to hers.

"You been talking to them feds about me?" His voice was low and menacing. She could only grunt. He released the pressure and she tumbled to the floor.

"Get up. I _said_ you been telling them about me?"

She was gasping, kneeling on the floor—he'd let go of her but there still wasn't enough air in the room—and shaking her head. No, she hadn't told them anything about Mr. Godwin. That wasn't the reason they'd wanted to talk to her. They were asking about Joey and the yellow house. They were asking about things that weren't even real anymore.

"Answer me, dammit!"

He knocked her flat and, balancing himself with one hand on the refrigerator, he launched a series of kicks that stole her breath again. She curled into a ball, but it was a useless defense He was shouting about his business, about his worthlessness, about what he was going to do to her if the feds came knocking at the door. The doorbell rang just then, so he dropped his belt on the floor, threatened to kill her if she moved, and left the room.

It was only a minute until he returned. The light in the room was hazy, or maybe her eyes were hazy, she couldn't tell, but it wasn't the feds who followed Mr. Godwin back into the room, it was Mr. Shawn. Tears threatened, but Sara held back. She hated Mr. Shawn. Mr. Shawn put his hands down her pants and called her _sweetie pie_ and _sugar_. She'd found the courage to rebuff him once, and Mr. Godwin had slapped her so hard that her ears made noise for days after. Since then she let him do it. Now he was kneeling over her, his voice low and rumbling. Now he was tugging her clothes off—first her shirt, then her pants. She closed her eyes. Somewhere Mr. Godwin was still pacing, still shouting, but louder now was the sound of Mr. Shawn without his clothes, holding himself over her, breathing on her neck.

But it didn't last long. Mr. Shawn disappeared and Mr. Godwin's shouting got louder.

"What's wrong with you, getting on a little baby like that? Sick, man."

"She made me do it."

Godwin turned to Sara, semi-conscious and bleeding on the floor.

"She ain't nothing."

He turned on her again. "You ain't _nothing._ Not a single damn thing. You're not anyone's kid, you're not anyone's snitch, you are nothing to nobody. I will make sure of that."

He snatched her up under the arms, hauling her out the kitchen door and across the back yard to the fence. The trash cans were there. It was fully dark out now, and not a single person was around to see him toss her, naked and bleeding, onto the cement pad where the cans stood. He unleashed on her again, all fists and boots, landing as many blows as he could before exhaustion took over. Sara was still, eyes closed. Using the toe of his boot, he pushed her back against the trash cans and went back inside, and turned off the kitchen light.

Gibbs woke with a grunt. His blanket had slipped off the couch and he was cold, even though it was a warm night. He got up slowly, knees complaining, and got to the top of the basement stairs before he remembered that Ziva was asleep in the guestroom, having had too much to drink to make it home safely. She'd insisted on a cab, but had fallen asleep at his workbench before she could call one. He's jostled her, taken her jacket and keys, and handed over comfortable clothes before she could drift off again in the guest bed. So hee couldn't work now; he'd wake her and she'd be useless come lunchtime. He tiptoed up to the bathroom on the second floor and helped himself to a double dose from the economy-sized jar of antacids in the top drawer. Since he'd learned of Sara Cohen's attachment to the Kettle case, his stomach had been a boiling vat of corrosives. The bourbon and pizza didn't help.

A loud noise from the guest bedroom startled him and he nearly dropped the bottle. He settled, though, when he realized it was only Ziva, snoring away. If she'd been his kid, he would've had her tonsils and adenoids removed decades ago. Everyone would sleep better for it, Ziva included.

Tossing aside any ideas of sleep, he donned socks, sneakers, and an inconspicuous ankle holster before sliding out the front door, intending a jog. The antacids were working and the night was beautifully clear and warm. It was the kind of night that would have followed an evening of catching fireflies when Kelly was small. Setting them free and her off to bed, he and Shannon would sit on the porch for hours afterward, drinking decaf and watching the neighborhood go to sleep. Now he was pounding down his street and around the corner, past the playground, the grammar school, past houses still will sleep. Only an occasional bathroom or kitchen light burned as he ran, testament to the fact that he wouldn't be the only restless soul tonight. He was glad for the company, even if it really _wasn't_.

When he returned, sweaty and stinking of the booze he'd consumed, Ziva was at the dining room table, nursing her first cup of coffee and cradling her head in her hands.

"Morning, Ziver." He smiled despite her pathetic glare she shot him.

"Ugh," was her only reply, and he took the stairs two at a time to the shower.

She was still there when he came back. "You get any sleep at all?"

"The bed would not stop moving. I tried to hold it down, but it just swayed back and forth, back and forth." She demonstrated, shifting left to right in her chair. "Do you do that every night?"

He shrugged. "Not really. But this case is eating me up. That kid..." He drifted off, not needing to say more. She nodded, biting her bottom lip.

"I know." She swallowed hard. "I've seen suffering, Gibbs. Women, children, boys sent to war before they could shave, addicts, veterans, victims. I've never seen eyes like that, Gibbs. Not ever."

His stomach took up churning again, but stuck his face in his coffee cup to avoid her gaze.

"We did the right thing. Now we just have to make sure everyone else maintains the momentum." He'd be checking in withs social services once his team had their reports done and Abby could abscond with them back to his house.

"Now get in the shower and get your ass off to work. You have a homicide to solve."

At three-thirty the front door banged open and someone clomped down the basement stairs. Abby. Of course. He turned off the table saw and shook the sawdust out of his hair and out of the folds of his t-shirt. Abby was standing at the bottom of the stairs, clearly distraught.

"Staff Sergeant Kettle is Sara Cohen's father." She thrust a printout at him—a graph of DNA strand comparisons.

He cleaned and oiled the saw blade, stacked the cut lumber, and organized a pile of sandpaper before responding.

"Well, now she can find a permanent placement. I'll make a few phone calls."

Abby switched gears so fast his head spun.

"Gibbs, she knows something. We need to get her back in here. She's been placed with Eugenie Marion, a bank teller at the Iron Star Bank branch in Dupont Circle." Abby's voice softened and the pace increased. "But what scares me is that Marion lives with her brother, Aaron Godwin. He's bad news, Gibbs. Petty theft, assault and battery, possession of a controlled substance..."

Gibbs cut in before she could jump to conclusions. "Everyone filed reports with CFSA, Abby. Everyone did their job on our part, we just need to make sure they follow through. I made some phone calls and got some file numbers. It seems that Susan McNamyre did her job."

Abby just stared and pouted.

"I'll see her on Saturday, Abbs. I'll read her a story and make sure she's ok. Maybe you should stop by and see her. I'll bet she'll be happy to see you."

A small smile creased her cheeks. "I stuck a cotton swab in her mouth and it was like I gave her a lollipop. I could tell she was weirded out by all the attention."

He embraced her and kissed her head. Abby's heart was so big that it threatened to swallow the all sometimes.

Saturday morning arrived and Gibbs' stomach was just as sour as it had been on Wednesday. Kettle's case had picked up a little momentum; the heroin in the needles came back as more than street-level Mexican Brown Tar, somTim and Tony were on the trail of a Northwest DC dealer who was a known supplier to addicts who hid among mainstream society—desperate housewives, stockbrokers, young dot-commers who like to party hard. They'd stopped over to his house briefly on their way to surveil the guy's apartment in Pentworth last evening. It looked promising, according to Tony, who was anxious to get a solved case under his belt while he was in the position to get a little glory out of it. Tim was a little less enthusiastic, but thought it would be time well-spent.

He jammed the car in park and idled for a moment behind the wheel. The day was overcast; a greenish cast at the horizon foretold of thunderstorms. Appropriate weather, as his heart was heavy.

Inside, he stared for a long moment at "their" frog, smiling, swimming so innocently in its pool of blue kraft paper. His hand acted of its own accord and tugged the frog down, picked out the staples, and slipped it into the pocket of his blue jeans. Noise in the hallway was coming to a crescendo, signaling the arrival of the children and the commencement of Reading Time. Aracelie was first, then Lazaro, then twin boys he hadn't seen before. They had thick shocks of black hair and wore identical yellow football jerseys and happy smiles. He settled on their bench to wait.

He waited. And he waited. And he waited some more. Forty-five minutes into story hour and there was no Sara, no Miles. A pressure rose in his chest, his ears burned, his eyes were suddenly very dry and his palms very wet. Something was wrong and he was not about to sit here and wait any more.

He jerked his phone out of its holder and strode down the hallway to the front door.

"Abby? What's the address of the Marion house in Congress Heights? No, I don't have a minute, I need it _now_."

Abby was stuttering, searching her files and texting Tony to get his pompous ass out of bed yesterday.

"Eleven-fifty-one Ninth Street Southeast, Gibbs. What are you doing?"

"Can't talk, Abby," he said, and hung up.

He pulled his sig and badge out of the glovebox and started the engine. He was only traveling a few blocks, but his gut was telling him that this was serious. He dialed again.

"DiNozzo? Get Ziva and meet me at the Marion house. No, let McGee sleep, I asked for you." Click. He had to go slowly; if he showed up at the house with no backup there would be hell to pay later. While this was not part of the original plan he'd silently made, perhaps the end result could be the same. He took several breaths and pulled into the wide avenue.

He circled the block three times before David and DiNozzo got there. It was early and the street was still quiet. While it made the agents more conspicuous in their government-issue sedans, it did cut down on distraction.

"What's going on, Boss?" Tony was standing at the open passenger door, Ziva checking her gun in the driver's seat. He held a finger to his lips; even though it looked like the house was empty he couldn't risk a nosy neighbor ruining their op. Tony nodded and hung his badge around his neck.

"Take the front door. I'll head into the alley. Ziva, take the walkway around back." He handed out a spare set of radios he kept in the car and headed to the alley entrance at the end of the block. He got to the corner when Tony cut in.

"Place is empty, Boss, but the kitchen is a mess. Broken glass, blood everywhere, and there a eightball of coke on the coffee table."

"Don't touch anything," he cut in. "Local LEOs are on their way, I just called in some suspicious circumstances."

"Roger that. Suspicious indeed."

He passed the first set of garages, then the second. The macadam was cracked and littered with broken bottles. He was sweeping for movement, but nothing stirred, so when Ziva came over the airwaves he jumped. Her voice was high and thin.

"Gibbs, Tony, you need to get to the Marion backyard _right now_ and call a bus."

He broke into a run, sprinting the last hundred yards to the gate. He couldn't see anything at first, but the smell greeted him when he swung around the cement palette that held the trash cans. Blood and vomit. Lots of it. Coughing once, he saw Ziva crouched between the cans, stroking the bloody hair of Sara Cohen.

And Gibbs just about lost his shit. Her right eye had swollen so severely the lid had begun to turn inside out. Blood had trickled from her nose and ears. Her legs were splayed knees-out and abrasions littered her lower abdomen and upper thighs.

"Jesus, Ziva." He was sputtering and shell-shocked.

"She's got a pulse and she was moaning when I found her. She stopped when..." Ziva cleared her throat. She was close to tears. "When I started petting her head." Ziva sniffed hard and wiped her eyes on her sleeve as Tony thundered across the patchy lawn ahead of two paramedics carrying a backboard and a kits. Gibbs stepped aside to call Abby and Tim as they assessed Sara and began field treatments.

"Where are you guys taking her?"

The blonde one answered as he rigged another wide-bore IV. "George Washington. They have the best pediatric trauma unit."

He relayed the info and hung up, slapping the phone closed with more force than he'd intended.. Her would meet the ambulance there. Tony and Ziva would get a CSU team in to gather evidence. He was certain this was Godwin's work, and their Petnworth dealer had something to do with it. But now he wanted to see that Sara was in the best possible hands.

Susan McNamyre met him in the ER having been summoned by DCPD. She was obviously dressed for a weekend in yoga pants and a tank, so she was unprepared when Gibbs launched his assault.

"You let this happen."

She was dumbfounded. "Agent Gibbs, I investigated. I followed all the proper protocols. There was no suspicion of abuse once we got in the house. I tried to get Sara to tell me something but she wouldn't even look at me."

"'Cause she knew it didn't matter! You were going to leave her there anyway, weren't you?" He wasn't exactly shouting, but his voice resonated across the waiting area. He steadied himself, remembering that Sara was down the hall in Trauma 3. The pediatric attending had taken one look at her and yanked the gurney back to the most serious part of the department. Now, as if sensing Gibbs' calm, he emerged from behind a blue curtain. He'd removed his protective gown so as to greet them in clean scrubs.

"Family of Sara Cohen?"

Susan stood and pulled Gibbs along with her.

"I'm Dr. Mark Levine. Care to step down the hall for a moment? I'm sure we could all use the privacy."

The followed him to a small room just off the nurses station. It was furnished with pink office chairs and a rolling stool. They sat.

"As I'm sure you know, Sara has sustained serious trauma. She presented with all the indicators of abuse, so we have our law enforcement liaison working with a nurse practitioner to gather information and evidence before we take her back to surgery." Dr Levine held out a tablet computer that Gibbs hadn't seen him carrying before. "Sara has a Grade III concussion, pressure trauma to her windpipe, a broken clavicle, four broken ribs, and a greenstick fracture of her ulna and radius, just below the elbow." He highlighted the fractures on the x-rays currently on the tablet screen. "Furthermore, she has sustained four very serious fractures to her pelvis and an anterior dislocation of her left hip."

Susan sucked in a breath. Gibbs sighed and put his head in his hands. Dr. Levine continued. "She also has a lacerated spleen and deep bruising to her kidneys. We need to operate, first to remove her spleen, and secondly to place some hardware on her illiac crests—her hipbones—to help her pelvis heal properly." He watched his audience carefully. Gibbs' head had risen, Susan had steadied herself. "We'll place four pins on her pelvic bone and attach them to titanium rods. The pins will be internal, the rods, or fixators, will be external. It looks painful, but it will provide the best possible outcome."

"What kind of outcome are we talking about, Doc?" Gibbs tented his hands and waited as the doctor pondered for a moment.

"If we act quickly and vigilantly Sara can make a full recovery. If we don't, there's a possibility of permanent disability."

Gibbs stared at Susan, who was busy signing the paperwork that would allow the doctors to continue treatment.

"I'll let you two have a moment of privacy." Dr. Levine gather his belongings and left.

Gibbs leaned in close to Susan. He waited until she made eye contact, then spoke slowly and lowly.

"I want custody."

Susan looked up from the paperwork.

"I don't care what strings you have to pull or how many signatures to need to get. When that kid gets out of the hospital she is going nowhere but to my house. Do you understand?" His blue eyes were hard.

She cleared her throat. "You can't threaten me, Agent Gibbs." It was clear his tactic was working.

"I'm not threatening," he said softly. "I'm stating a fact. She goes only with me. You can make that happen." A staredown ensued and he clearly won.

Gathering her wits and paperwork, she stood and reached for the door. "I'll get started on the forms right away. Can I assume you'll be here? I'll bring them by this evening. You have a lot to sign."

He smiled. "You can assume. I'll see you by six."

Susan swung the door open and harsh hallway light spilled into the room. Casting one last glance over her shoulder, she left, her sandals squeaking toward the sliding exit doors.


	9. All Will Be Well

_A new day dawns, and_

_I am practicing my purpose once again._

_-Gabe Dixon Band, "All Will Be Well."_

Leon Vance appeared in the surgical waiting room long before Susan McNamyre came back with his paperwork. Gibbs wasn't surprised; The Navy Yard was a small town with small-town gossip; Vance would have heard by now what had happened in Congress Heights and how it had transpired. They sidestepped polite salutations.

"Suspicious circumstances, huh?"

"Yeah. Very suspicious." Gibbs was hunched over in his chair, hands dangling between his knees, eyes on the floor. He hadn't even looked up when Vance approached him.

"Social services call me at eleven asking for employment verification."

"I have a kid to take care of. They want to make sure I have a job. Pretty reasonable, I guess," he paused for a moment, thoughtful. "The home visit will be interesting."

"I emailed them a letter. Wasn't sure if you wanted me to mention how close you were to retiring."

Gibbs' head jerked up, then fell again. He chose not to think about retiring, but sometimes, alone in the basement with his boat and the fading memories of his dead family, it couldn't be helped. The idea of staying home, of not clipping on a badge and gun ever morning, of not pulling up to the gate-guard was like scuba diving at a hundred meters—pressure and darkness everywhere except the small circle of light he carried in his hands. But now it would be different. Sara would be there, and her needs would drive him each day to wake and face the world. He grunted, acknowledging Vance's statement, and his stomach, for the first time in weeks, settled itself.

Leon's voice was soft when he spoke again. "I heard it was bad."

Gibbs grunted again. "Yeah. You could say that."

"How long have you been waiting to hear anything?"

"Surgeon came out to talk to us about three hours ago and got the consent form from the social worker."

"What are they looking at?"

"A bunch of broken bones, ruptured spleen, bleeding. Her pelvis is shattered, I think. They want to do something with pins and rods." He trailed off. He kept flashing back the moment he'd come around the fence and seen Sara on the ground, limp as a broken toy, Ziva delicately petting her head, trying desperately to assure the unconscious child that _it would be ok_. The dread of that minute revisited him again and again as the shadows grew long on the hospital walls.

Vance could sense that he needed to be distracted and changed the subject fast. "Local LEOs found Godwin in Pentworth with Shawn Keyman. They're booking them now and we'll get our chance with them once the charges go through."

"I know Kettle is her father."

Vance wanted to be surprised. "Abby told you." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. Said she was going to get her back in—thought Sara knew more than she'd been able to tell us on Tuesday."

Vance shrugged. "Well, once she's feeling better we'll have Ziva talk to her again. Maybe she'll feel more comfortable now that she's safe."

"We'll see about that."

"Gibbs, you know how this works, if she kn-"

For the first time, Gibbs raised his head and met Vance's gaze. "I _said_ we will _see _ about that, _Leon._"

Vance nodded, returning the stare. He had kids of his own and would react much the same way if, God forbid, something like this happened to Kayla or Jared.

Susan McNamyre appeared before he could press the issue, breathing hard and looking haggard. She clutched two manila envelopes that were overflowing with paperwork.

"Agent Gibbs, I have some forms for you to fill out and a brief exam you need to take." She glanced at Vance and nodded a greeting. "Would you like to do this now?"

Gibbs held out his hands and accepted the two heavy files. "Where should I start?"

Susan pointed to the one in his left hand. "This is a parenting exam. I got you out of the required course by telling the judge you have a child. He just needs you to pass the exam with a score of 80% or above."

Inside was a booklet and answer sheet. He stood, moved to a table against the wall, and sat. The questions were insipid, of course—common sense stuff that applied more to a rescued puppy than a traumatized child. He answered the twenty questions with confidence and handed it back. She gave him the other folder. "Sign everywhere there's a flag. There are two sets of the same forms—one for you and one for me—sign everything." She traded his pencil for a black ballpoint pen and got to work on his test. He got to work, posting his signature on employment forms, education forms, medical forms, psychological evaluation forms, and finally, the custody agreement. That one he signed with a flourish, dotting the _I_ in his name with a stiff jab.

Susan looked up from her grading. "You passed with flying colors." She smiled. He didn't return the gesture. She doled out the sets of forms and opened a datebook.

"I'm scheduling your home visit for Wednesday afternoon. That should give you plenty of time to secure your weapons and create adequate arrangements for Sara." She glanced over her shoulder to the OR entrance. Her tone softened. "I think Sara is going to be here for a while, so, I didn't rush the process. Make sure you speak to the doctors about things she'll need once she leaves here."

Gibbs nodded and glanced at his watch. In a little over three hours he'd gone from a work-driven widower to a working foster-father of a pre-schooler. He was faintly shocked at his own decision, but his quiet gut told him it was right.

Susan and Vance stood simultaneously. Susan took her leave first. "I'll see you Wednesday, Agent Gibbs. I'll call Tuesday evening to confirm a time." She strode out the door, waved once from the hallway, and was gone. Vance cleared his throat.

"I need to get back to headquarters; your team needs organizing and we'll get on Godwin the minute we get a chance. You're off this one indefinitely, Gibbs." He swallowed and looked where Gibbs was looking—back toward the OR doors. "Take care of that baby." And with that, he was gone.

Quiet didn't reign for too long. Within ten minutes of Vance's departure Abby appeared at the waiting room door, hugging herself and looking tearful.

"Gibbs, we did everything we could. I had no idea it would get this bad."

He would lose it if she broke down, so he held drew her close and ran his hand up and down her back.

"She's going to be ok, Abbs. It's bad, but she'll be okay."

Abby calmed herself but began to wring her hands once he pulled away. "But she's so little, Gibbs. She's a _little tiny kid. _Like, a _baby_. Who could do this to a baby?"

"A terrible person," he confirmed. He waved the paperwork at her. "But I'm on watch now, so it won't happen again."

She started mutely at the forms in his hand for a moment, purely dumbfounded, then her face broke into a smile and she bounced on her toes a little. "You took her? Wow! Gibbs!" She threw herself at her again. "Congratulations, Papa Gibbs! It's a girl!"

She tore herself away from him and sucked in a breath. "Gibbs! Your house is a mess! How can you take her there?"

He knew he could count on Abby to be direct. "I'll get it done, Abbs. Susan is coming Wednesday for the initial home visit. I'll have it all set up."

She eyed him suspiciously. "How you going to do that and stay with Sara at the same time? You may be a superhero, but you are only one person." She whipped out her phone, kissed his cheek, and spun towards the door, already texting. "I'm on this, Daddy-o. Give me forty-eight hours."

Gibbs smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets. Abby loved a project—she was a born helper and generous to a fault. If he could count on anyone to make sure he had everything for Sara, it was her. She whirled out the door and down the hallway texting fast and making, he was sure, lists in her head of what needed to be accomplished.

"Agent Gibbs? Excuse me, sir."

Gibbs jolted, suddenly wide awake. Dr. Levine was standing over him, surgical cap still on his head, carrying the tablet computer from earlier.

"Agent Gibbs I'm here to give you the post-op for Sara Cohen."

"Yeah. How is she?" He cleared his throat and ached for coffee. It was dark out but the waiting room was harsh in fluorescent light. His eyes were sandy with sleep. Dr. Levine sat next to him and propped the tablet on the edge of his chair.

"We removed her spleen, pinned her collarbone, set her arm, and reduced her dislocated hip. We also stabilized her broken pelvis with the external fixator, like I told you in the pre-op debriefing. She's stable, but still intubated and on a ventilator. We're trying to keep stressors at a minimum, so she'll be sedated until tomorrow afternoon at the absolute earliest." He scrolled through a new set of x-ray images on the tablet as he spoke, illustrating the work his team had done. "In pediatric cases there can be complications after a splenectomy, namely severe infection. We're running a broad-spectrum antibiotic for Sara now, and she'll have to take daily maintenance medication after the tetracycline runs its course. It'll keep the threat of infection to a minimum as her system recovers."

Gibbs took the information in stride. If all he had to worry about was a daily dose of antibiotics, he would be just fine and so would Sara.

"You said something earlier about permanent disability. How does that look now?"

"We've realigned her pelvis and attached the fixator, but that's more of a long-term question. We need to see how she heals. The fixator will stay in place for four to six weeks. At that point we'll remove it under general anesthesia and reevaluate. She may need a follow-up operation or some other secondary treatment, but we'll have an orthopedic team in place for her by the time that happens. Physical therapy will also have a lot to do with her recovery. That can be started as soon as she's awake and stable enough to start moving around a little bit." He leaned forward. "Honestly, her survival was questionable just a few hours ago. I think we should focus on how well she's doing right now and worry later about the future."

He was right. Gibbs should be happy to have a living, breathing child to care for. "Can I see her?"

"She's in PICU—Pediatric Intensive Care. She'll probably be there for a few days, then we'll move her to a step-down unit. I can take you."

The PICU was a series of small rooms that pinwheeled from a central nursing desk. It was far quieter than the surgical waiting room, and Gibbs felt like a spectacle as his work boots squeaked on the sanitized floor. Dr. Levine pointed to the closest unit and they entered to the sound of the hissing ventilator.

Sara was prone in the center of the bed, naked except for what looked like a cloth diaper. She was puffy from so many hours in surgery, skin stretched so tight over her joints that it looked shiny. Her eyes were bruised, swollen closed. There were stitches in her scalp and a blue corrugated tube was taped at the corner of her mouth—it's much narrower counterpart snaked down past her larynx. A cervical collar was around her neck, relieving some of the pressure from her bruises trachea. Her broken arm was in a cast and elevated on a pillow to take the stress off her collarbone. Worst, though, was the hardware that stretched over her midsection. The pin sites on her hipbones were bruised black and blood had crusted around them. The fixator itself was a series of titanium rods that arched over her belly and the incision from the splenectomy. IV lines were taped to her ankles and unbandaged wrist.

Gibbs' mouth fell open. Dr. Levine had assured him she'd survive, but from the looks of her it would be a very difficult and painful recovery. He abruptly stopped processing what he was seeing.

"She's going to make it?"

Dr. Levine didn't miss the accusation in Gibbs' tone. He spoke gently. "I know it looks terrible, Agent Gibbs, but she's not in pain right now. She's coming along nicely, especially since we just closed her up a little more than an hour ago. Please trust me that we did our best and so will she. It'll be ok. There's a comfortable chair here. You can sit with her for as long as you'd like—there are no official visiting hours on this floor. It's best for the families."

Dr. Levine made his exit, pager signalling another child in peril. Gibbs sat, eyes still on Sara, broken despite the many hours of life-saving surgery. His chest heaved once, twice, and he dropped his head into his hands and wept.


	10. Girl

_The white coats enter her room _

_ And I'm calling my baby._

_ -Tori Amos, "Girl."_

A sharp breath from the doorway broke the boundary between wakefulness and sleep. It was early, but the PICU room had no windows, so as for how early, he couldn't tell. He turned in his seat and found Ziva was standing in the doorway, one hand over her mouth. Sara's condition was startling even to her. Ziva didn't move, but looked at him and motioned to the bed with the other hand.

"Gibbs," she whispered. "I am..."she let her voice fade. What was she? Shocked? Horrified? Elated she'd survived? She wanted to say that _she couldn't believe it_ or _she was so sorry_ but the all died in her throat. Tears welled-she couldn't help herself—and Gibbs was comforting her with two strides across the room. He spoke into her hair.

"If you weren't there, Ziver, she'd be dead. Keep that in mind, huh? The doc says she'll be all right. It's just going to take some time."

She sniffed, pulled back, and wiped her eyes. "Tony has no idea. He barely saw because he helped the cops with the drugs and the scene."Tony was as tough as he was tender; he'd be fine.

He grunted and pulled back to check her over at arms length. She was in frayed jeans, a t-shirt he recognized as DiNozzo's, and a grey hooded sweater. There were paint smears on her wrists and hands.

"Where you been, David?" His voice was soft and stern.

She stammered for a moment. "Just, you know, housekeeping." She smiled, but it faded when she returned her gaze to Sara, motionless in the bed. She stepped closer and lay her hands on the bedrail, swept her gaze over the bandages and tubes, and stopped at the titanium rods.

She said nothing for a long time. When she turned back to him there were tears in her eyes again.

"Do you think I can hold her hand?"

"Sure. Just try not to touch any of the needles."

She reached down and brushed the back of her knuckles over Sara's, then tucked two fingers against her palm. Sara grabbed hold.

"Do you see this?" Ziva's whisper was sharp.

"It's a reflex. A lot of kids do that. It's a throwback to infancy." He paused. "She's heavily sedated." Sara couldn't be awake; Colleen had just adjusted the meds. He sighed, nonetheless; Ziva had a tremendous soft spot for children, harkening back to her days as an older sister to Tali. She was gentle and maternal despite the fact that she'd been trained—quite literally—to kill. Gibbs puzzled for a moment over that, but focused again when Ziva stepped away from the bedside and then back to it.

"She won't let go." With the other hand, Ziva pried at Sara's fingers, still wrapped around her own. She managed to tug free and Sara's hand flexed and tightened into a fist. An alarm on the computer began to sound from its place on the other side of the bed.

"She's in pain, Gibbs." Ziva was alarmed, eyes wide, brows raised. "You said she was sedated!"

Nurse Colleen bustled in and delivered a dose of medication. The computers stopped it's beeping immediately and she opened a file on the computer to take a few notes. She seemed unphased by the alarm, but Ziva was shaken.

"What was that all about?" He demanded.

"She was just coming around a bit, so I adjusted the dosage to keep her under. It's ok. It happens a lot with kids because it's difficult to find the right amount of medication to keep them comfortably out. If she was hurting she won't remember it when she wakes up later." Colleen looked at Ziva who was still visibly upset, and her tone softened. "She's okay now. You can go back to holding her hand. Maybe talk to her a little."

Ziva shook her head. Gibbs sensed she felt guilty, as if Sara's brief but painful experience had been her fault. "Maybe I should go. Tony and Abby are probably wondering where I went. They only sent me out for coffee."

Gibbs eyebrows went up. "Sent you out, huh?"

Realization dawned; she'd blown her cover. "Um, we're just working Kettle's case. Tying up some loose ends before we interrogate." She pushed a hand through her hair.

"So working Kettle's case is how you got interior latex paint all over your hands?"

She blushed. "I told you. Housekeeping."

"So are you housekeeping or working the case?" He grinned.

"Both. At the same time." She met his eyes with the same determination he saw when she drew her gun. "I'm a trained assassin, Gibbs. I am a highly-skilled multi-tasker. And now I must multi-task my way to the coffee shop."

She stepped to the bed, lifted Sara's hand once more, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A knot formed in Gibbs' chest; it had been a stressful day, to say the least, and the affectionate gesture nearly brought him to tears again. Turning, she hugged him hard and was gone.

When he walked back into Sara's room—he'd gone for yet another coffee—he was surprised to see Dr. Levine leaning over the computer on the opposite side of the room. He looked up from the nurses' notes when he entered and gave him a hopeful smile before moving to the bedside. Sara's condition was unchanged as far as Gibbs could tell, but Levine's demeanor indicated good news.

"I want to start weaning her off the sedative. Her vitals have been steady since she came out of recovery, so I think it's time."

Gibbs was relieved on one hand and alarmed on the other. "She had a reaction this morning that looked painful. She wouldn't let go of my colleague's hand." He felt numb and slow from exhaustion and had trouble accurately relaying what he and Ziva had experienced. Had she been in pain? Was it a reflexive reaction to stimuli? Had she been having a nightmare? He wiped at his eyes and Dr. Levine shrugged.

"I'm not saying it wasn't scary for you, but it was perfectly normal reaction given the circumstances. We'll make sure she won't be in that kind of pain when we wake her up if it was the case. I've discontinued the sedation, so she should start to come around in an hour or so. If her oxygen saturation levels stay up we can extubate then."

Gibbs sipped, swallowed, and nodded, still uneasy. While he hated to see Sara unconscious, it was easier to deal with his own emotions when she was asleep. Once she woke up, he'd have to deal with both of them. Would he be able to assure her that things were going to be okay? Would she understand she was safe? Could he soothe her if she got scared or upset? He took a deep breath, then another. He had signed on the dotted line.

Stirring from the bed interrupted his reverie. Sara was waking, her good hand trembling on the bed, a tiny fisherman grappling for purchase on icy consciousness. Her eyelids twitched and two tones started to sound from the computer. A nurse and a physician's assistant hustled in, paging Dr. Levine as they ran. Gibbs stepped back against the wall, hopeful and nervous, watching them disconnect the ventilator from the tube and switch off the alarms. Dr. Levine arrived, greeting Gibbs briefly and looking over the scene before him. Sara's agitation was increasing, so the doctor stepped to the bedside and began his ministrations.

"Sara?" he called. "Open your eyes for us." He was speaking loudly, as if calling to her over the rumble of a vacuum cleaner. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice.

"C'mon, Sara. It's time to wake up." The doctor gently jostled her uninjured shoulder and reached for the ventilator tube. "I'm going to count to three and then I want you to blow as hard as you can. We're going to take the tube out, ok?"

Sara hadn't opened her eyes yet, but he counted, pulled, and the nurse and PA moved in quickly with suction and an oxygen mask. There was blood on the end of the ET tube and gurgling sounds from the suction mechanism. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling, unable to look at Sara, gagging and coughing weakly into the oxygen mask, barely conscious. Dr. Levine checked the monitors.

"Her SATs are good. Let's give her ten minutes with O2 and see if she wakes up a little more. If she does we can give her some ice chips to help with the sore throat. Is your throat itchy, Sara? Does it hurt?"

Her eyes were closed, brow furrowed. She was still breathing hard. The nurse—Gibbs needed to ask her name—made a few adjustments at the computer terminal.

"I'm upping the pain medication a little. I think she's uncomfortable. Let's give that a moment to do its job and check in again."

Dr. Levine checked her SATs again, then turned and shook Gibbs' hand. "Looks better every minute, Agent Gibbs. We're going to keep an eye on her for the rest of today and tonight, and then in the morning, if she's still doing well, we'll move her down to Peds Ortho on the fifth floor. I'll be back for evening rounds and we'll do another assessment. Take care, ok?"

Gibbs returned the handshake. "Thanks, Doc. See you in a few hours."

Seconds later, he was alone with Sara. He stepped to the bedside and lay his hand on her brow, careful not to touch the stitches near her hairline—sixteen of them, he counted. She was struggling with the oxygen mask and tried twice to bat it off. Gibbs stilled her hand with his own and she startled.

He soothed her gently, speaking softly.

"Sar? Honey? It's ok. It's just Gibbs. Can you open your eyes for me?"

She stilled, then tightened her fingers around his. "C'mon Sara. You can do it. Open your eyes."

She did, blinking once, then twice, long lashes fluttering. Using a force of will he hadn't known she possessed, she opened them fully, but lost the battle to focus on anything. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and he called to her again.

"Over here, honey. Over here. He brushed his unoccupied hand over her left cheek and she closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. She was looking at him, and elation crept into his heart. He grinned. "Hi, Sara. I'm glad you're awake. I know you feel bad, but it'll get better."

She blinked again and let her gaze roam the room. He knew from experience that waking up from sedation was difficult; faces were blurry, lights too bright, voices too loud. He tried to soothe her.

"You're in the hospital, Sara. There are really good doctors and nurses taking care of you. They're very nice, and you're safe with them. And I'm here if you get scared, ok?" She looked at him, trying and failing to focus. He stroked her cheek again, but couldn't say more because the nurse returned. He straightened and she smiled as she read over the vital statistics. "All her levels are looking good for now. Her blood pressure is up, but she's probably stressed. Let's see if maybe some warm blankets make it better. We'll try some ice chips later on."

She disappeared, only to reappear seconds later bearing an armful of blankets which she spread over Sara, who was drifting easily on the narcotics, with tremendous care. She smoothed out the final wrinkles and turned to him.

"I suppose you'll be with us for the rest of the evening. We can bring you a cot. Another night in that chair will put you in here with her." She gestured to the recliner he'd occupied. Gibbs felt like she was speaking to him from very far away—the adrenaline and upset of the past twenty-four hours was catching up to him, and he's just wanted to rest. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

"I'm sorry, but I forgot to ask your name."

She smiled. "It's been an exciting afternoon. I'm Joanna. I'll be on until nine, then Sandy will be on until Colleen comes back tomorrow morning. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Besides a short nap? No." He was swaying slightly. He felt lighter than he had in weeks now that Sara was awake, even though he could rationalize that it would be a long time before his life regained any sense of normalcy. He glanced at the bed. Joanna noticed him looking.

"She'll do that for the rest of the day. In fact, why don't you go home and I'll have the cot brought up later on. You can take a short nap at home and be back in plenty of time for evening rounds. We'll probably get her up again when Dr. Levine comes around."

Gibbs was torn; he didn't want to leave, but his body was shutting down and coffe couldn't rescue him from the crash. He surrendered.

"I'll go. But I'm giving every staff member on the floor my card. If she flinches I want to know about it."

She saluted before leaving and he swore she was channeling Abby. Moving back to the bed, he kissed Sara's head and assured her he would return. She slept on, unaware. He dropped a stack of cards on the nurses' desk and jabbed the elevator button.


	11. Hammer and a Nail

_ Gotta get out of bed, get a hammer and a nail,_

_ learn how to use my hands._

_ -Indigo Girls, "Hammer and a Nail"_

Everyone's cars were in the driveway when he pulled up to the house, so Gibbs parked on the street and dragged himself up the sidewalk, boots made heavy with exhaustion. Sighing, he swung open the front door, only to pull back to study the house number. This was his place, right?

The entire first floor had been repainted a soft pale brown—the color, he supposed, of coffee with milk. The floors had been polished, furniture cleaned and slipcovered. There were toss pillows and an area rug in the living room and an actual table and chairs in the dining area. A grating noise came from the kitchen. He followed the sound to find Abby scouring the sink and Ziva restocking the canned goods in the pantry.

"Uh, yeah. Hi, kids."

They whirled, instruments of sanitation still in their hands. "Gibbs!" Abby threw the scouring pad in the trash and nearly lept into his arms. "We're almost done! We painted, and cleaned, and redecorated..." She pulled away and pointed a stern finger at him. "And no more racking on the couch, Mister!"

Ziva was more subdued; Gibbs suspected she was still carrying guilt from Sara's morning scare. "I sent Tony out to buy a television for you. I thought you might like it so Sara can watch some cartoons while she recovers." She angled her head back towards the living room. "I chose the slipcover because it was soft. I found some things that were of a slightly higher quality but a child might think they were scratchy or hot." She was going to continue with an argument for each purchase they'd made—the area rug, the pillows, the paint—but a loud clatter from downstairs interrupted her. A moment later Tony banged up the stairs, grinning. Gibbs scowled in return.

"The hell you doin' with my tools, DiNozzo?"

Tony was nonplussed by the harsh question. He was on a mission and knew his boss's tone only reflected how touched he was by all the work they'd done for him—for _them_. He grinned.

"Oh hey, Boss." He held up a socket wrench and several ratcheting hex-keys. "Got what I needed. You know it's not so fabulously organized down there. Maybe Abby can help you. Probie told me that she color coded all his computer cables to match his Dungeon Master capes. You know, so they were easy to keep track of."

His diatribe was interrupted by a sharp slap to the back of his head. He winced, then winked. "Sorry, Boss." He trotted through the living room and up the stairs, tools in hand. Gibbs followed. The spare bedroom—the one the team occupied during overnights—had been cleaned and rearranged. Aluminum tubing and fine nylon mesh were spread out on the floor; apparently, Tony needed the tools to build safety rails for either side of the high queen-sized, sleigh bed. Shannon had chosen the piece from a high-end furniture catalogue and, unable to afford to buy it retail, he'd found the specs and built it in the basement. In the process, Kelly spilled a quart of walnut woodstain on the floor and the marks were still there; oddly, the stain looked like a silhouette of President Abraham Lincoln. McGee remarked on it each time he saw it. _Nice bust, boss_. Lost and vaguely smiling, Gibbs ran his hand along the footboard.

Tony was kneeling on the floor, coupling a few of the pieces together. "I'll just get these together and set 'em up. No big."

Gibbs stopped him. "No, DiNozzo, not in here."

Tony was flabberghasted. "She can't sleep in your bed, Boss. Ziva has banned you from the couch."

Gibbs' voice was low. "Clean out Kelly's room."

DiNozzo froze. "What? Are you joking?"

Gibbs stared hard. "No, DiNozzo, I'm definitely not joking. We'll donate her stuff and get a new mattress. I think that one's worn out and Sara will need something with adequate support once she comes home."

"But why? She can be perfectly comfortable in here. The bed is great—very soft—and the quilt is warm. She'll be fine."

Gibbs stood his ground. "The other room is closer to mine. I want to be able to hear her at night if she needs me. And this is obviously a guest room for adults. Sara needs her own room. A space that is intended and only for her."

An imaginary lightbulb flickered over Tony's head and he nodded. He gathered his tools parts and he and Gibbs stepped together across the hall into Kelly's room; it was a pink shrine, untouched since she passed away. Her toys and games had been stacked in the corner and some of her clothes remained in the dresser, others had been donated. Awards for gymnastics and academics were stuck to the wall with yellowing adhesive, a tee-ball bat leaned by the closet door, small bottles of glitter nail polish were lined up on the dresser, their lack of contents a testament to a sleepover party. A long silence ensued. Gibbs broke it, voice rough.

"I stopped coming in here ten years ago. For a long time after she died, I'd come up here, sit on the floor next to her bed, open one of her favorite books, and drink myself stupid."

Tony's heart broke. "Why'd you stop?"

Gibbs sighed, shoulders slumped. He felt old and tired standing next to DiNozzo in his dead daugher's bedrom. "I had to," was the only response he could muster.

"You don't need to do that anymore. But be careful. Sara can't be Kelly."

Gibbs nodded. "I know. But having her around..."

Another long, quiet moment passed. Tony was first to speak. "It does something for you, I know. It fills a void. Just don't try to make her into Kelly. Let her be herself."

"You seem to know a lot about being a replacement, DiNozzo."

Tony inhaled through his teeth. His mother's death had left him playing second fiddle to his father's alcoholism. Anthony Senior had treated his son like a friend and a confidante before abruptly sending him away, first to one boarding school, then another, beginning when he was ten. Both his mother's passing and his father's abandonment had scarred Tony deeply and he still dealt daily with feelings of inadequacy and loss. As usual, he hid behind humor and smirked.

"How can I not? You love Abby so much better than me." His tone was wistful—sarcastically so.

Gibbs snorted. It wasn't the truth, but he could see how Tony would feel that way, even in jest. Abby needed affection and someone to push against when the stress of loving so much threatened to plow her under. Tony needed discipline and loyalty; he was still an unruly adolescent in so many ways, but everyone knew it was a persona he affected to avoid being hurt again. Gibbs recongnized this and did his best to provide for him. He cuffed him on the shoulder.

"Let's get this place cleared out and maybe send McGee out for a new mattress. I'm sure he'll find some space-aged polymer thing I'll need a year to pay off."

Sara was still unconcscious when he returned, but increased activity on the floor told him they'd be waking her again soon. Colleen was back on duty; she adjusted one of the IVs in Sara's ankle and made notes in her file. The sight of the needed moving under the skin made Gibbs shudder.

"Why didn't you put them in her arms? There's more skin there."

He was not the first squeamish adult she'd encountered. PICU was a place where the adults frequently needed more support than the young patients.

"They're intrusive. If we put them in their feet they're not such a bother. Leads to fewer pulled lines. Kids are little Houdinis; even one that's half-asleep can pull out an IV and Foley." She pondered for a moment and checked the seal between Sara's cheeks and the oxygen mask. "It's pretty remarkable, I'd say. Most adults need weeks of schooling before they can remove one themselves."

He approached the bed. Sara didn't look any better than she had a few hours earlier; she was still swollen from surgery and the bruises had blackened over the course of the afternoon. The incision down the middle of her belly was smooth and straight, though, and the bloodstains from the operation and the fixator placement had been wiped away while he was gone. With one tentative hand he smoothed back her hair. She didn't stir.

Dr. Levine entered, sneakers squeaking on the tile.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm happy to see you again. Sara's doing well; her SATs are steady and her blood pressure is right where it should be. If we can get her awake and responsive for a few minutes we can move her down to Ortho first thing tomorrow."

He made a few notes at the computer terminal and asked Colleen to remove one more of the needles from Sara's left ankle. Only one remained now, and the line in her wrist. They jostled her good shoulder again and rubbed the tender spot over her sternum.

"C'mon Sara, it's time to get up again," Colleen called. Dr. Levine squeezed her right foot gently.

"Sara? Wiggle your toes for me."

She came around much faster this time, shrugging away from Colleen's hand and opening her eyes. They were still glazed but she didn't react as if she was in pain. Gibbs stepped forward when she didn't move as the doctor had directed.

"Hey Sar, I'm here. Can you wiggle for Dr. Levine?"

Her brow furrowed and she rolled her eyes towards him but made no effort to do as the doctor asked. Dr. Levine abruptly abandoned his post at the foot of the bed and removed the penlight from his pocket. He checked her pupils and she flinched, whimpering. It was the first noise she'd made since waking and Gibbs' protective streak went into overdrive. He leaned over her, nearly pushing the doctor aside.

"That's right, sweetie, tell them how much it hurts." He stroked her brow and looked up at Dr. Levine. "Was that really necessary?" He couldn't keep the growl out of his voice.

"I'm trying ascertain if she'd sustained nerve damage, Agent Gibbs. She should've responded when I asked her to move her feet."

"She's not a _responsive_ kind of kid, Doc," he warned. "And why would you shine light in her eyes? She has a concussion."

"I know she's photosensive right now, and her pupil response time is sluggish because of the head injury." He softened his tone. "We're just doing our best to make sure she's on track to make a full recovery. I know she's been traumatized; I'll be gentler."

He turned back to Sara. "Sorry, Sara," he apologized. "Can you try to move your feet for me again? Maybe wiggle your toes?"

She opened her eyes again and found Gibbs still within her line of sight. He smiled, and she blinked at him before closing her eyes.

"No," she rasped, voice rough and barely audible behind the oxygen mask.

Gibbs leaned closer. "No _what_, Sar? You can't wiggle for the doctor?"

"No wiggle," she repeated, eyes still closed. "_Hurts_."

Dr. Levine turned to Colleen. "Switch her over to Tramadol _now_ and get a pillow for under her knees. Let's see if taking the pressure off her hips helps at all."

Gibbs continued to stroke Sara's forehead, feeling helpless as everyone else bustled about. Collen returned with a pillow and slid it under her knees, the injected a syringe-full of pink medication into the IV port in her wrist. Tranmadol was non-narcotic, she assured him, so they didn't have to worry about her drifting off while they were trying to get a good read on her pain status.

"Why is she still hurting so badly?" He was beginning to question their efficacy as medical providers and his told them as much.

Colleen was quick to assuage his anxiety. "Think of the improvement, Gibbs. Last time she couldn't even get her eyes open. This time she had real responses for us. The hard part is almost over. You'll see much faster improvement now that she's twenty-four hours out of surgery and off the narcotic painkillers." She laid a hand on his arm, careful not to step too far into his personal space. "Children are amazingly resilient. Trust me; I've been doing this job for seventeen years. It's going to be a lot of work and a long time, but she's going to be okay."

He nodded, not convinced. She might understand the physical recovery, but Colleen hadn't witnessed Sara's silence and vacant seawater eyes. She returned to the bedside and rousted Sara again, rubbing her chest, stroking her head, calling to as if from across a crowded room. Sara's eyes opened again. Colleen smiled.

"Ok, Sara. You shouldn't be hurting so much now. Wiggle for me, ok?"

Sara flexed her right foot, then her left. She glanced back and forth between the two of them, seawater eyes wary.

"Now your fingers, Sara. Wiggle for me."

Left first this time, the left. All the motions were minute, but Colleen smiled and cheered as if she'd thrown a Hail Mary. Gibbs joined her, pressing kisses to her fingers and brow. Sara hummed raspily and slept again. He swore—just for a second—that she was smiling under the mask, but dismissed it. Had he _ever _seen her smile?

Colleen pranced out of the room, excited to share Sara's progress with the other floor nurses. Gibbs dropped heavily into the bedside chair and leaned forward to rest his head on the cool metal bedrail, overwhelmed and overtired. Without looking up, he searched the bedclothes for Sara's hand, and, finding it with his own, he slept.


	12. The Needle and the Damage Done

*Thanks everyone for all the kindness.

_ But every junkie's like the setting sun._

_ -Neil Young, "The Needle & the Damage Done."_

From the observation deck, Shawn Keyman could look all the world like he was waiting for a bus. Casually posed in the hot seat, he glanced around the room, then down at his expensive sneakers. Clean-shaven and shaggy-haired, he looked more like a recent high school graduate than a trafficker of narcotics with several misdemeanor arrests—and now one felony—under his belt. Tony steadied himself, grabbed his case folder, and entered.

"Mr. Keyman, how are you today?" His voice was full of false cheer.

Keyman answered politely enough. "I'm well, thanks. But I want to know why NCIS wants to talk street. Don't you find more drugs in the caskets they send home from Kabul?" He smirked and Tony tried not to punch it off his face.

He smirked back at Keyman. "You seem to know an awful lot about dead boys and poppy resin," he countered. "How does it feel to root around in the coffin of a dead soldier?"

Keyman's smirk faded. "I don't need to fondle corpses for product. It's bad business practice."

Tony pushed Staff Sergeant Kettle's uniform photo across the table. "You know him?"

He glanced once and nodded. "I know him. Good customer. He decided he liked the needle so we went our separate ways. I'm not into injectables, but he brought me some fine clinetele before he disappeared."

"Kettle's dead." Tony deadpanned. "And not from an OD. Furthermore, we found your DNA at the scene. Care to explain?"

Keyman's scowl deepened and he leaned forward, tense. "What the hell do you mean, "scene?" I haven't seen Kettle in months. I heard he was dead from DCPD when they told me you wanted to see me. I had nothing to do with his one-eight-seven. Leave me alone or get me a lawyer."

Tony leaned forward also and ignored the request. The camera would get it and someone would make a phone call. "How'd you know Kettle was murdered?"

Keyman's mouth fell open; he'd blown it. Tony honed in, pushing the crime scene photos from St. Elizabeth's across the table. "We found your epithelials on the fence and they matched the ones on Kettle's hands. You two get into a fight?"

"Yeah, but he was standing when I left. I parked by the main building and went though the fence. That's why you got my skin. We pushed each other a few times but that was it. He was desperate, man. Sweating, drooling, screaming at me for something. I wasn't holding, but Godwin was, so I called him to come down."

"Godwin? You knew him? Then maybe you know about this." Tony pulled ou the photos of Sara the hospital social worker had taken when she'd arrived—gruesome pre-triage photos of her bruises and broken bones. Keyman looked away, then put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

"Was Godwin there when Kettle was killed?"

Keyman shrugged and didn't look up. "I told you man, I left."

"Were you there when _this_ happened?" He indicated the hospital pictures with his chin.

Keyman nodded again. Tony lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "We got your DNA again. The nurse took it off her thighs. We both know what that means." DiNozzo paused. "Do you know what they do to baby-rapers in jail, Shawn?"

His head jerked up. "I didn't rape her!"

"Really? Then how did your semen get on her leg? And your saliva on her neck?"

Keyman shook his head, eyes wide. "Lawyer!" He was crying now. "I want a lawyer!"

Tony closed the folder. "Ok," he conceded. "We'll get you a lawyer. But we're talking to Godwin, too, so you'll need really good councel. Like, the _best_." He couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. He left, slamming the door behind him.

Tim and Ziva were waiting in the bullpen when he arrived, still steaming from his interview and carrying the folder of photos.

"He didn't kill Kettle," he spat, "but he definitely had a hand in what happened to Sara. Lawyered up as soon as I mentioned it." He tossed the folder on his desk and rubbed his eyes. Tim stepped forward. "Abby found out that Godwin was a PFC and served with Kettle in Baghdad the first time around. Honorably discharged and was working for the bank in Dupont Circle where he met Marion. He's on disability now—claimed PTSD turned him into an alcoholic and drug user."

Ziva snorted. "Did PTSD make him beat the hell out of a little girl?" Her tone was all acid. Two police officers appeared in the hallway to interrogation and waved at the trio. Godwin had arrived. Ziva put her gun in the bottom drawer of her desk and locked it. _Just in case_ she told herself, and strode across the room to the waiting officers.

Gibbs paced the hallway of the Pediatric Orothopedic Unit on the fifth floor of the hospital. It was much more cheerful than PICU, with bright colors on the walls and a nurses station that always had juice and sliced apples on the counter. Two nurses, Suzanna and Tatiana, had already introduced themselves to him and shown him to where Sara would be staying—a small, private room with a window that overlooked Washington Circle Park. It was pouring rain now but he was glad for the view nonetheless.

Two hours agoNurse Sandy had woken him to tell him that Sara would go for a follow-up CT and then she'd be moved downstairs. He'd headed outside for the first time in twelve hours, past the closed high-rise offices on K Street, up 21st past the elementary school to a coffee shop on L. He bought a coffee and wandered down to the park. There was no dew on the grass and the air was heavy with the hint of summer rain. Or maybe that was just his heart.

Several teenage boys skateboarded down the path, school bags on their backs. He watched them, all easy hipslung grace, as they swung a wide berth around the corner towards University High School. Would Sara be one of those teenagers one day, shouldering a backpack and kicking through the leaves to class? Would friends call to her from across the street, uniform skirts rolled at the waist? Would she attend summer enrichment programs or sleepaway camp?

A social worker had put a note in her file about Spectrum Disorder testing; Abby told him that "spectrum" meant the autism spectrum and he was momentarily stunned at the severity of such suspicion. Was that why Sara was so slow to respond? Did it explain why she wouldn't look at him? Or was that because of the months of neglect she'd sustained? The psychiatrist's suspicion of "brain differences," coupled with the abuse she'd experienced made him wonder what that would mean for her at ten or twelve or sixteen. Abby had assured him that medical technology and therapies had come a long way, and many people with spectrum disorders had fulfilling, loving lives, even if they were a little "different." The quotes were hers, not his, and she'd winked, fiddling with the spiked cuffs around her wrists.

"You know, Gibbs. _Different_." She'd smiled as she said it. Growing up the hearing child of deaf adults in the American South left it's mark on Abby, and she advocated endlessly for those who were marginalized by an otherwise heterogeneous society. A person on the spectrum, in Abby's eyes (and consequently his, too) was no less deserving of love than a person who wasn't. Before he'd left her lab that morning she'd stuff a handful of pamplets about Autism Spectrum Disorders in his shirt pocket.

Having finished the coffee and ambled slowly back to the fifth floor, he was standing by the window when the elevator dinged and two orderlies entered, pushing Sara's bed between them. They rolled into position, set the brakes, and left. Another orderly attached her to vital sign monitors and cleaned the IV port in her ankle before disappearing down the hall.

Sara was staring at him, seawater eyes wide. He approached and laid a soft kiss on her brow. She flinched.

"Hey, Sar. How was your scan?"

The nurses had decorated the bedrails with colorful stickers while she was in Radiology and he followed her gaze to them. "Nice stickers. I guess that means you were on your best behavior." His tone was gentle, teasing. She didn't respond. He kept on, anyway.

"How's your pain today? You look a lot better than yesterday." And she did. The swelling had gone down all around; her joints were almost back to their normal size. Her eyes were still puffy, but no longer so horribly swollen and bloodshot. The incision in her belly looked better—the stitches small and neat—and the fixator pin sites had been recently cleaned of any dried blood and dressed in cotton wool. She was off the narcotics for good and her eyes were clear. She focused on him for the first time.

"Gibbs," she said softly.

"Yeah," he smiled. "Hi."

"Gibbs," she said again, just as softly.

"I'm here," he countered. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you that last night. Remember?"

"No." She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but stopped.

"Hurts, huh? Your belly?"

She reopened her eyes and glanced down at her exposed abdomen. The nurses still hadn't dressed her in a hospital gown, but used soft blankets instead for modesty and warmth. "Cut me open." She laid one index finger next the steri-strips that covered her incision.

"Yeah, you had a bad cut in your belly and you were bleeding inside. They had to fix it. Now you'll have to take medicine every day for a while so you don't get sick."

Her brow furrowed and she looked at him, more puzzled than afraid. Curiosity moved her again, and she laid the same finger on the fixator, then dropped her hand to the bedcovers and leaned her head back into he pillows.

"Ouch," she said simply.

"Yeah, ouch," he agreed. "Those pins go deep into your bone. Is it uncomfortable?"

"No touching," she replied. Was she ordering him not to touch it, or parroting the commands of the nurses?

Suzanna came in with a tray which she deposited on the rolling table and pushed it toward the bed. "Hi, Agent Gibbs. Hi, Sara. Want to try some juice?" The tray contained two apple juice boxes and straws. Suzanne opened one and held it out to Sara but she made no effort to take it.

"Here," he offered. "Let me try." He held the straw to Sara's lips and she took one tiny sip, eyes wide and fixed on him. "It's ok," he coached. "Have a little more."

She took one more tiny sip and pulled away, sighing and closing her eyes. He set the juice aside and Suzanna administered another dose of pain medication.

"She probably still has a nasty headache," she said, making notes in the file. "And will for another day or two. The tramadol is helping; she's alert and drinking. Even a few sips is a good sign." She smiled and turned to leave. "You can give her more juice if she asks for it, but not too much at once. We'll build her caloric intake one day at at time."

"She's underweight, isn't she?" Gibbs did a cursory look over her exposed arm and legs. They were too thin, her cheeks hollow under the bruises. If she wasn't still a little puffy, her joints would be knobby. _A little bird_, he thought dimly.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "She's got some indicators of chronic malnutrition. Dr. Levine said her bones were pretty soft when he set the pins in her pelvis, and there are some thin spots in the cerebral cortex on the CT scan. Speaking of, her post-concussion syndrome has decreased a bit since yesterday. That's good news. Now that she's talking we can get that collar off."

He looked at the cervical collar, still velcroed around her injured throat,then closed his eyes and brought Sara's hand to his lips. Medical professionals tended to spew information faster than he could process, but worse was the amount of suffering Sara had been subjected to in such a short period of time. "Chronic malnution" meant she'd been underfed for a long time. She'd only been in foster care for fifteen months. How many families had ignored her basic needs? His stomach began its churning again and he wished for an antacid.

Suzanna put her hand on his bowed back. "We're going to get the right people in place that will help you take good care of her. Me, Tatiana, Dr. Levine. We'll also start to work with a physical therapist and a nutritionist. You'll have a whole team dedicated to Sara's needs. Do you have a support system to take care of yours?"

He thought about Ducky and Abby first; they were the consummate carers. Even when he resisted their efforts they were gentle and kind. Tony, McGee, and Ziva were siblings in their own right and could always be counted on. He raised his head and nodded

"Yeah. I got a couple of kids, some friends. I think we'll be ok."


	13. Day In the Life

_I read the news today, oh boy,_

_ About a lucky man who made the grade._

_ -The Beatles, "A Day In the Life."_

What Edward Godwin lacked in intelligence he made up for in belligerence. He denied all involvement with Staff Sergeant Kettle, even though the drugs in Kettle's system were the same grade and concentration as the ones in his house. He denied any involvement with Keyman, even though shoeprints and a forgotten cell phone put him in Keyman's Pentworth townhouse.

Frustrated beyond the tellable, Ziva maintained remarkable calm throughout the interrogation. Voice even, tone unchanging, she'd asked him again and again and been greeted with the same answers each time. So she broke out the eight-by-ten glossies.

"This is a photo of Sergeant Kettle's dead body." She pushed the photo at him and spoke as if he was very, very stupid. "We have an eyewitness that said you were there."

Godwin crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling. The video camera rolled on.

"Private Godwin, you can go down for murder. If you want any shot at redeption I suggest you come clean."

He nearly spat in her face. "I don't need to say a single damned word. Now book me and get me out of here." He sucked his teeth. "Jew Bitch Feebie all in my _business_."

Ziva's temper flared. She stood, calm as ever, and walked in short, careful steps around to the his side of the table. She crouched next to him, leveling their eyes. With small, nimble fingers, and lightening-quick, she jabbed him in the pressure point just under his right ear. He inhaled sharply but made no sound.

"_I know what you did to that little girl," _she whispered. Her tone was deceptively light. "_And I know that men who beat and rape little girls do not survive long in the brig._" She pulled her hand away and circled back around to her seat. Godwin gasped and eyed her wildly.

"The hell is wrong with you? I know my rights! You can't treat me like that!"

"Tell me about Kettle," she replied evenly. "Tell me about Kettle and you'll save yourself from a lot worse than that."

He balked again, mumbling. She jostled the table with one sharp movement and he jumped out of his seat like a cat.

"Knock that _off_!" he commanded, voice high.

She smirked. "Tell me about Kettle," she repeated.

Godwin sat again, heavily this time. "Kettle was hurtin'. I had to deliver or he was gonna shank someone."

Ziva just stared, unconvinced. That made him talk faster.

"I'm serious! I was doing you all Feebies a favor selling to him. I don't know nothin' about him getting killed."

"I never said anything about Kettle being murdered," she said smoothly. Apparently Godwin and Keyman had an agreement about corroborating stories.

"What did you sell him?"

"Good stuff. Stuff Shawn usually sells to them Wall-Street-lookin' dudes. Fresh, too, no sugar."

"And did you hang around when he shot it?"

Godwin shook his head, then nodded. "Yeah," his voice was thick. "I hung for a minute, but he got all in my face about how good he felt and I had to shake him before he started making a scene. They still patrol that place, you know."

DCPD did periodic checks on the abandoned St. Elizabeth property, but not with any regularity. There was a pretty low chance that anyone would've seen a nervous Godwin roughing up a junkie like Kettle.

"Shake him, huh? He wanted to fight?"

"He wanted more but he didn't have money. I wasn't about to hold for him. So he grabbed me and I shoved him. He went down, I took off. That's _it._"

Ziva nodded but didn't believe him. Users were fragile, but there was nothing to indicate in the analysis that Kettle died from being shoved. She switched channels fast so he couldn't back out.

"Tell me about Sara Cohen."

Godwin rolled his eyes. "_Retard,"_ he muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" This was the opening she'd been looking for.

Godwin challenged her again, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. "You heard me. Damn kid running around telling everyone my business. How I ended up here."

"Did you decide that before or after you put her in the hospital?" Her tone was all cold fire now. She was as focused as a housecat toying with a lizard—eyes wide, posture tense, waiting patiently, _patiently_ to make the kill-strike.

"Why you want to talk to her, anyway?"

"I don't need to answer that, Private Godwin. That's not how interrogation works. Our forensic scientist says your boots had her blood all over them and Shawn Keyman's semen was found on her leg. If you don't tell me how those two things happened, I can make arrangements with my good friend s at Leavenworth."

She leaned forward and whispered, "_You will never sleep again._"

Godwin came unhinged. "Feebie bitch! You can't threaten me! I had grenades thrown at me every night for months! Some-"

He was cut off abruptly when she rammed the table again, jamming its edge into his solar plexus. He gasped, eyes bulging. She stood over him, palms flat.

"You are going to tell me what you did. Then you are going to write it down. Then you are going to the darkest, coldest corner of the Chesapeake brig. _Because it's the only place you'll be safe._"

He nodded. "Ok!" he sputtered, still out of breath and holding his hands up in surrender. "I got scared when your boys dropped her off, thought she was talking shit on me. I wanted to shut her up." He got quieter. "I just wanted to shut her up."

Ziva silently pushed a legal pad and pen across the table.

Tony smiled when she came out of Interrogation. "Nice work, my ninja," he sobered. "But don't expect a raise. I can't authorize one."

She didn't crack a smile. "I'm leaving," she said quietly, looking down at the floor. "I don't think I need to see him after he writes his confession." She raised her head. "I did the hard part and now you can have the glory. Goodnight."

She grabbed her gun and bag and was gone before the elevator door even opened.

Gibbs had finished the Post and was on to the New York Times when Ziva arrived, ruddy-cheeked and solemn. He put down the paper, lowered his reading glasses, and gazed at her openly. She nodded at him, went to the bedside, and began to stroke Sara's hair in much the same way she had when he came around the fence that horrible Saturday morning. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Had that only been three days ago?

"You got them, didn't you, Ziver?"

She nodded, still stroking Sara's hair. "I did not kill him," she said softly She stopped her absentminded motions and studied Sara, putting their faces close together. "But I wanted to. This is not rural Russia or China, Gibbs. This is the United States. We are not starving or oppressed and we are certainly not supposed to throw away our children." She took a deep breath. "I cannot stop seeing her by the trashcans. She looked like a broken toy."

He grunted but didn't get up; she would not accept any comfort right now. Her posture was rigid—shoulders tense, hands clenched, eyes wide and wet, voice soft and hoarse. "I may be from a violent country, Gibbs, but a Jewish mother would never, _ever _allow a child to be treated the way she has. Not hers, not anyone else's, either."

He closed his eyes. Children were sancrosact in Jewish life, and `more so post-Holocaust. In response to the loss of so many loved ones and strangers alike, Jewish families began to marry younger, have families younger, and returned to an observant lifestyle in record numbers. The trauma of death-camps and ghettoes ran deep, and Gibbs supposed Ziva's family was no exception. Were her ancestors Polish? Lithuanian? Egyptian? So many had fled to Israel as soon as they could, then the U.S., then Latin America. So many others, sadly, did not get out. Ziva, by the merit of her religious heritage, simply couldn't fathom how a child like Sara could be passed from one family to another like a holiday fruitcake. Based on her name, he would surmise that Sara was Jewish, too, and figured that had something to do with Ziva's proximity to her suffering.

Sara jolted awake—there was no slow sliding from unconsciousness to the waking world. Ziva lowered her face once again and smiled, cooing slightly as if to an infant. Sara watched her, wide-eyed but unafraid. Ziva said nothing for several long minutes and Gibbs could sense that the two of them were having some kind of silent conversation that did not include nor pertain to him. A brief twinge of jealousy passed over his heart. Ziva began a myriad of gentle ministrations—checking the needles, the bandages, Sara's bruilsed fingers beneath the cast. She ran a hand gently down one leg then frowned and repeated the action on the other.

"Her skin is dry, Gibbs. Haven't the nurses provided any moisturizer?"

He glanced once around the room. "Nope. Doesn't look like it."

She hummed, still frowning. "I'm going out to get a few things. I'll be back later."

She was gone before he could respond. _Damn ninja_ he thought dully, and rubbed his eyes again. Sara was staring at the ceiling, face blank, eyes vacant.

"What'eh name?"

He pointed to the door. "Her name?"

"Yeh."

"That's Ziva. Do you remember her from the time you came to my office?"

"Yeh. Not jail."

"That's right," he agreed. "It's not jail. It's a safe place."

"Zee-ba," she said softly, and toyed idly with the bedclothes. Now that she was spending more time awake he regretted not having something to keep her entertained. He pulled out his cell phone to make a few calls but Nurse Tatiana appeared, smiling broadly.

"Sara, we can take that thing off your neck now. Want me to help you?"

Sara's free hand went to the collar and she started at Tatiana with wide eyes. Tatiana undid the velcro straps and prodded gently all around Sara's throat—front, back, sides—and asked if anything hurt. When she got no response, Gibbs encouraged her, tone firm.

"Go ahead, Sar. Tell her if anything hurts."

She spoke with some difficulty. "No. No hurt."

Tatiana smiled again. "Thanks for telling me, sweetie. Want more juice?"

Gibbs leaned forward before she could respond and held out a fresh juice box. Now that she could turn her head it was easier for him to offer things. She sipped and turned towards him, wincing once as her neck twinged. She stared at him for a long time. Tatiana finished her vitals, smiled, and left.

"Gibbs, what happen me?"

He wasn't sure he understood the question. "What happened to you? Or what is going to happen to you?"

She stared again. He decided to start from the beginning.

"Well, you came to talk to us, and then when we took you home, Mr. Godwin was angry and he hurt you very badly. Do you remember that?" She nodded but the look on her face was not resolute. She looked around the room, pensive.

"I memmer Zee-ba put hand..." She raised her own hand to her brow, knuckles first.

He was shocked she could recall that. "Yes, Ziva was there and she put her hand on your head. She was trying to make you feel better. Then the paramedics came and brought you here. You had surgery and then you slept for almost two whole days."

"I memmer dat," she said, eyes heavy.

"You remember sleeping so much?" He smiled teasingly.

"I sleeped it," she confimed.

"Yes, you did," he replied softly, but there was no response. She was out again. He stood and stretched, rising for the first time in hours. Pulling out his phone he stepped into the hallway.

"Yeah, Abbs, I need you to come to GW Med tonight. Call Ziva. She'll tell you what we need."


	14. All This Beauty

_I can see you're new-awake._

_ And let me assure you, friend-_

_ every day is ice cream and chocolate cake._

_ The Weepies, "All This Beauty."_

Abby would've bounced in the room but she was laden with shopping bags. Ziva was only a step behind, also packing presents. Gibbs smiled, rose from his chair, and kissed each of them on the cheek.

"Well?" he greeted them.

"We got everything!" Abby was exuberant but kept her voice soft. She'd toned down her usual outfit and was clad simply in a black t-shirt emblazoned with a smiling cartoon Dracula, jeans, and suede boots. Her cuffs and collar were gone and she wore little make up; he cautioned her about scaring Sara after all she'd been through. _Nothing that looks like needles, Abbs_, he'd warned.

She rambled on, oblivious to how he scrutinized her clothing. "It took us almost two hours to find the books you wanted. Ziva kept calling the Ox-Cart Man "Overall Man."

Ziva smiled sheepishly and dug through the smallest of packages. A powdery, clean smell wafted up from it and she brushed away blue tissue paper to reveal a dozen small bottles all bearing different labels. Finding one to her satisfaction, she daubed a bit on her palm, rubbed her hands together, and began to smooth a sweet-smelling cream over Sara's unencumbered arm and across her throat and chest. The twelve-leads had been peeled off with a sponge bath a few hours ago. Ziva was gentle, excruciatingly so, and Sara slept on.

Abby unpacked her bags as Ziva tended to Sara. She unloaded books, puzzles, and games, all appropriate for pre-schoolers and slightly beyond. With Gibbs' admonishment, she'd stayed away from electronics and things with small pieces or print. She stacked games and puzzles while Gibbs shelved the books on the window sill. Content with his own personal decimal system, he pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket, flattened it on the table, and displayed it on the bulletin board under the shift nurse's name. Abby looked up and clucked.

"Cute, Gibbs. It's saying your names!" She poked at it, trying to unfurl the edges. "I just love frogs." She paused, thoughtful. "Maybe we should've gotten more things with frogs on them. Or maybe we should've gotten her a frog."

Gibbs smiled. "You've done enough, Abbs. I really appreciate all this stuff. Sara will, too."

Movement from the bed indicated a waking Sara. Ziva had capped the bottle of moisturizer and hovered over sara, stroking her hair and whispering comforting things in her ear. Sara came awake slowly this time, focusing first on Ziva, then Gibbs and Abby. She fidgeted and stuffed her thumb in her mouth.

Abby approached the bed, "Hey, Sar. Remember me? I hung out with you and Ziva when you came to NCIS. Do you remember?"

Sara watching Abby closely for a moment, then turned to Gibbs, eyebrows raised.

"That's Abby. You can trust her, Sar; she's my friend."

"And yours, too!" Abby chimed in. "We brought you some stuff to keep you busy while you're stuck here in this boring bed. How about a puzzle?" She grabbed a stack of wooden puzzles from the table and sat gingerly on the bed next to Sara. "Which one, kiddo? Ooh, a frog! Gibbs told me you like frogs. Let's do this one." She tipped the pieces out of the frame and they clattered together on the bedclothes. Sara jerked her head up and stared at Gibbs, eyes wide, mouth a little _o_ around her thumb.

"Hey, it's ok. Play with Abby—she a lot of fun." He tucked an errant curl behind her ear and hoped the nurses would teach him how to wash and tame her hair sometime soon.

Sara turned her gaze back to Abby. Gibbs pushed the button to sit her up a little—the angle was awkward for her—and she winced a little at the motion. Ziva retrieved a cold, damp washcloth from the bathrom and lay it on her brow.

With a broad smile, Abby demonstrated puzzle building; she turned the pieces in her hands, deliberately tried to fit the wrong ones together, and kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation about the merits of frogs versus toads. Sara just maintained her steady gaze, thumb anchored between her lips, cold compress on her head. Abby finished the puzzle and held it up with a flourish.

"Ta da!" She crowed. "I bet you can do it, too."

Sara traced the edge of the frame with one finger then jerked her hand back, eyes wide. She took her thumb out of her mouth.

"Me too?"

"Of course, kid! It's your puzzle. They're all your puzzles. You can play with them as much as you want." Abby's tone was friendly, like she belonged on a television talk show for toddlers. Sara's eyes darted from Abby, to the stack of puzzles, to Gibbs, and back to Abby.

"No tricking," she said softly. Ziva growled softly and Gibbs put a restraining and comforting hand on her shoulder.

"No, we're not tricking you. These are yours. You can play with them, or we can read a story or play a game. We brought all sorts of things for you. Look." She got up and went to the windowsill. "Gibbs said you liked these ones," she held up the owl book and the farmer book. "So Ziva and I thought you'd like these others, too." In her other hand were some other colorful picture books. Gibbs didn't doubt that he'd be able to recite them from memory soon enough.

"No tricking," Sara repeated, gaze steady, eyes clear.

"No," Ziva interjected. "No tricks. You're safe here."

That seemed to do it. Sara lifted the corner of the puzzle frame and two pieces slid out onto the blankets. She toyed with them, squinting, before abandoning them and resting her head back on the pillow. She lifted her hand, intent on rubbing her still-swollen right eye, but Gibbs grabbed her wrist.

No, Sar. You can't rub your eye. If it hurts we'll get some ice for you."

She whimpered, and, as if she'd been able to hear it from the hallway, Tatiana appeared.

"I was passing by. You need ice? What hurts, Sara?"

Ziva looked up. "Her eye is bothering her and I think her headache got worse when we sat her up. Can she have some pain medicine, too?"

Tatiana nodded. "Of course. Dr. Levine put in an order for her to have some clear broth for dinner, so that should be up in an hour or so." She turned to Abby and Gibbs. "You two need anything?"

They declined and she skipped out, returning seconds later, holding a fresh hanging bag of medication and fluids, an ice pack, a cold juice box in her hands, and with Tony and Tim at her heels. Tony greeted Sara warmly, Tim presented a soft stuffed rabbit. Sara's eyes went round and she put her hand out only to jerk it back, as she had moments earlier. Tim lifted her arm, laid the rabbit underneath, and lowered it again. Sara didn't resist. It was almost comical, the way she kept glancing back and forth between Tim and the rabbit.

With a deep breath she said, "Thank you," and it was so clear and precise that Gibbs stopped his conversation with Tony and Abby to study her. She was still staring at Tim, but had wrapped her hand around the rabbit's foreleg. The veins in her hand bulged and her knuckles turned white. Tearing her eyes from Tim, she frowned at Gibbs worriedly.

"No tricks," she whispered.

He shook his head. "We've all told you there are no tricks here. We want you to play and be happy."

She wasn't convinced—he could tell, of course—but she laid back in the bed, idly rubbing the rabbit's soft fur.

"Bunny," she muttered, sighing, drifting, yet again, on the medication. While Tramadol wasn't a narcotic, the pain relief provided an opportunity for her synapses to slow their relentless firing and she often fell asleep after a dose. Before that could happen, Tatiana appeared bearing a tray of soup, crackers, and juice—cranberry this time, rather than apple. Sara's eyebrows went up.

"Wanna eat, Sar?" Tatiana uncovered the bowl and rolled the table toward her. Sara debated for a moment; should she relinquish the bunny to eat the soup? Gibbs was there in a flash, propping bunny up by the guardrails and unwrapping the plastic spoon.

"C'mon, Peanut. It's about time they gave you something to eat, huh?"

Only Ziva remained with Gibbs when Dr. Levine returned for rounds at nine that evening. Sara had eaten her whole bowl of soup and a few bites of cracker, been read two stories, and was conked out again within an hour of dinner. She'd stirred only once—when everyone had readied themselves to leave—and slept soundly through a check of her vitals and the removal of her dinner tray. Dr. Levine and the night nurse, Laura, performed their standard analyses under Gibbs' watchful eye.

"I'm going to give Sara twenty-four hours to wean her off intravenous painkillers and then we'd like to send her home," he said suddenly.

Gibbs' eyebrows shot up. "What?" he gasped.

The doctor sat in a visitor's chair. "She's progressing nicely; eating, drinking, interracting with you and your...family. With older children, I usually prescribe a week in a rehabilitation center to adjust to a new routine, but it's not necessary for Sara. We'll assign you a team of physical and occupational therapists. A social worker will work with you on obtaining the proper counseling, and before you know it, you'll be settled into a nice routine from the comfort of you own home." Sensing the trepidation, he softened his tone. "Agent Gibbs, I wouldn't release her if you were incapable of providing proper care. I'll meet with the team at first light and we'll have a plan in place right away. Just relax. You're doing a great job with her." He looked around at all the toys, then at Sara, clutching her rabbit even in sleep. "And it looks like you're getting good support from your family and friends. I'm glad to see that. Goodnight."

He left and Gibbs scrubbed at his face tiredly. The hospital had provided a safety net; he and Sara were protected from probing law enforcement officers and incompetent social service providers. Now he would have to face CFSA, NCIS, and DCPD. Just the acronyms were enough to make his head ache. There would be interviews and disruptive home studies once they left. He let his chin fall to his chest but, what seemed like only a moment later, a noise from the door startled him. The lights had been lowered and Ziva slept silently—for once—in the recliner next to the bed. Leon stood in the open door, silhouetted by the bright hallway lights. He offered a cup of coffee bearing the logo of the only all-night place on the GW campus.

"Kettle's case is shut."

Ziva woke as soon as he'd spoken. She sat up, alert and listening.

"Thought nothing was conclusive?" He sipped and sighed.

"Ducky found something fairly obvious in autopsy; apparently Godwin shoved him hard enough to cause his zyphoid process to break off and lodge in his heart. They're charging him with Murder-Two in the morning."

"And?"

"And NCIS can't do anything about the child abuse charges. That's up to DCPD, but they're waiting on the medical reports and an interview with you and Sara. Apparently the hospital won't release the reports until she's out of here."

"Good," he spat.

"How's she doing?"

Gibbs sighed. "Ok, I guess. Physically, the doc says she's doing really well. He wants to release her on Wednesday."

"That's great. What about otherwise?"

"She's...confused, I think. She barely speaks. She's nervous all the time, and doesn't believe me when I tell her that no one here is going to hurt her. Abby and Ziva bought her toys and games but she seemed to think we were trying to trick her with them."

Leon scowled. "Trick her how?"

"Dunno. That we would take them away, maybe? Take her back to any one of her abusive foster families? Tim gave her the rabbit. He just stuffed it under her arm so she couldn't refuse it. Now she won't let it go."

"Don't worry, I'm sure she'll put it down long enough for you to walk her down the aisle."

Gibbs sucked in a breath. He'd spent the last three days mulling over adoption versus permanent placement. Logical processes were always overridden by the image of CFSA breaking down his door and tearing Sara from his arms. Twice he'd had nightmares about it—he knew the sound of her cries, how she pleaded his name, how he'd woken each time like he'd been punched in the stomach.

Leon apologized immidately. "I think of her as yours, Jethro. I think you do, too. Now go home and get some real sleep." Leon stood and rousted Ziva, who'd fallen asleep again, as Gibbs bent to kiss Sara goodnight and sweep the same errant curl behind her ear.

His phone was beeping but he couldn't find it. Had the light over the stove burned out? No. He was upstairs, having fallen asleep in his actual bed, which resided in his _actual_ bedroom. The right leg of his sweats had twisted around his knee and he fumbled, stupid with sleep.

"Yeah," he growled. "Gibbs."

The new bedside clock read three-fifty-one in the morning.

"Agent Gibbs, this is Laura, Sara's night nurse. We really need you to help us out."

His heart leapt into his throat and he had to clear it twice before he could respond.

"What happened?"

"We're not sure. Sara is very upset right now and we're having trouble calming her down. Could you come help us?"

He was yanking clothes from the closet before the question was fully asked. His shoes were somewhere, right?

"Agent Gibbs?"

"I'm on my way," he replied, and hung up.

Gibbs could hear Sara from the elevator; apprently "very upset" had been a vast understatement. She was crying wordlessly and with an intensity he'd heard only a few times in his entire life. He rushed down the hall and into the room, where Laura and an aide in blue ER scrubs were fussing around ineffectively, administering medication, checking and re-checking for the source of the pain. He couldn't restrain himself.

"What the hell is going on?"

Laura stepped over to him and laid a restraining hand on his forearm. "Agent Gibbs, she woke up crying about forty-five minutes ago and it's escalated ever since. We can't figure out if she's in pain or if she had a nightmare. She won't respond to our questions and when we try to find the source of the pain. We've given her all the tramadol we can, so we paged Dr. Levine to see if we can try a sedative. He should get back to us shortly. He got called into OR two hours ago after a motor vehicle accident."

Sara was writhing on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she screamed and sobbed and arched her back like an infant. She was drooling, her nose was running, and her eyes were swollen shut again. He stared in turns at her and the medical staff in the room. Fury set a fire in his chest.

"She was fine all afternoon. What have you done?"

Laura gave him a push toward the recliner. "Sit," she ordered. "I have an idea."

While he got himself situated, Laura unhooked all the tubes and wires, draped them over the bedside closed to him, and in one smooth, practiced motion, scooped Sara and all her equipment into her arms. Stepping around the bed, she desposited Sara in _his_ arms. Once he had a comfortable grip, Laura grabbed a pillow off the bed and slid it under his left elbow, where Sara's head was propped.

The shift took only a few seconds but it took him far, far aback; it hadn't occurred to him, not in all the medical procedures and clinical discussions, that Sara was, essentially, his kid, and he had the same right and responsibility to hold and comfort her as any other parent would for their own child. He wanted to cuddle her closer, to settle her across his chest like a baby, but the fixator across her pelvis prevented that. He cursed the titanium rods and the sharp screws drilled deep in her hipbones. He shifted again so one arm was free to stroke her hair, and an old switch—a dusty one in a rarely-used breaker box—was flipped. He began to croon quietly in Sara's ear, murmuring soothing, nonsense words in an almost-lullaby. _Daddy mode_, he thought numbly, and rocked in his seat.

To his surprise, Sara's terrified and terrifying screams stopped instantly. She hiccuped a few times and jerked once, limbs flying, but went quiet—shockingly so. When the nurse assured him that he had not hurt her, that she had simply cried it all out, a sigh of relief sounded from the entire floor.

Dr. Levine rushed in. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, now. She had some kind of meltdown an hour ago but we got it under control." As if to demonstrate, Sara jolted in his arms and cried out once more. He shushed and rocked her, murmuring quietly, and she settled again. Dr. Levine looked her over for any obvious changes. None presented themselves.

"I don't think the sedative is necessary. I'd rather not give it to her if she's comfortable now." He braced himself against the wall, removed the surgical cap, and scrubbed at his eyes.

He lifted his head to make eye contact and Gibbs could see his own exhaustion reflected in the doctor's weary posture. "I'm thankful you came down to help. Most foster parents won't do that."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, leveling Dr. Levine with a steely glare. His voice was terse when he spoke again. "I'm not most foster parents."


	15. Nightswimming

**To all of you who left reviews—I treasure what you say and take it all with deadly seriousness. Each comment was honored to the best of my ability and Moshe, I am happy to have "music family" somewhere out in the world. To those of you who haven't left reviews—you are just as loved for simply stopping by. I started this story because of an incessant plot-worm that would not let me sleep and I continued it because it went out into the world and became it's own thing. I am still flattered and honored and feel special each time someone takes a minute to read what I wrote. I can't possibly name each person here, but thank you and thank you and thank you. You are wonderful!**

. . . .

_I'm pining for the moon._

_ And what if there were two,_

_ Side by side in orbit_

_ Around the fairest sun?_

_ -R.E.M., "Nightswimming."_

Gibbs didn't sleep that night; he simply sat with Sara and watched the light from the window turn from grey to gold. It wasn't long after sunrise that Suzanna came in to go through the morning routine and return Sara to bed. She was followed by Tony—bearing coffee, of course—and a woman wearing a hospital badge that he hadn't met before.

The woman, grey-haired, and wearing funky glasses, introduced herself. Her handshake was firm, eyes clear and as blue as his own.

"I'm Dr. Karen Goldman," she said. "I'm the psychiatrist assigned to Sara's case. I've read over her file and I'd like to coordinate an evaluation with you." She had a colorful satchel with her, which she opened to withdraw a familiar manila folder. "I'm sure you'll agree with me that there are some red flags I'd like to address as soon as possible."

He took a long draw on his coffee. "Go on," he countered.

"A previous social worker noticed some serious delays in Sara's cognitive development, coupled with some autism-like behaviors. I'd like to run a full evaluation, with your permission, of course, so that we can get her on a therapy and treatment schedule."

He blinked at her, heart sinking. "You think she's autistic."

She shook her head. "I don't think anything without an evaluation." She thought for a minute, studying him. He met her gaze straight on, defensive and tense, and she decided quickly that a direct approach would get her the farthest.

"Honestly, Agent Gibbs, autism spectrum disorders are the 'disorder du jour' among the juvenile psychiatric community right now, especially among professionals who work with children who have experienced trauma as severe as Sara's. Some children are born with the inclination towards autistic disorders, others are diagnosed as they react to and recover from traumatic injury or events. My job is to determine whether or not Sara is actually on the spectrum, or if she's so severely traumatized that she has adopted autism-like behaviors for coping. I'm also here to determine what kind of cognitive delays she's experiencing, and get her on the right track with appropriate remediation."

Gibbs took a breath and, while he wasn't into head-shrinkers, he did like that this Karen Goldman didn't appear to be interested in drugging his kid to the gills.

"So you're not going to load her up with prescriptions and send her home?"

Dr. Goldman frowned. "Absolutely not. I have yet to find a case where that's in the best interest of the child."

He smirked. "Bet that earned you some golds stars with CFSA."

She nearly snorted. "I don't work for them, and for good reason. I'm an independent contractor and I select my cases very carefully." She paused, adjusted her glasses, and pursed her lips. "I heard from Susan how you handled the custody agreement. I decided right away that I wanted your case." She lowered her voice and spoke very carefully. "I wish more foster parents would advocate as...intensely...for their kids as you did, Agent Gibbs."

Tony laughed, and Gibbs and Dr. Goldman both jumped, having forgotten he was in the room. "You are the most reasonable shrink I've ever known, Dr. Goldman. That is _awesome_. Oh hey! Someone's awake!" He jumped out of his chair and nearly ran to the bedside, chanting _Sarie's awake! Sarie's awake!_

Gibbs took another long drag on his coffee before he spoke again. "This is my colleague and close friend, Agent Tony DiNozzo."

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent DiNozzo," Dr. Goldman called. He responded likewise and lifted Sara's hand from the blanket, holding it by the wrist. "High five!" he called, and gently slapped their hands together. Sara stared at him, but didn't pull away. "High five!" he said again, and repeated the action. "Now bunny's turn!" He gave the stuffed rabbit a high five and a low five. Sara remained impassive but didn't shy away from him.

Dr. Goldman watched the interraction with interested. "Is this typical?" she asked. "The eye contact?"

Gibbs nodded. "She stares a lot."

"Does she reciprocate affectionate advances by your or your team members?"

Gibbs shifted uncomfortably. "We haven't had the chance to show much real affection. She's in an awkward position—we can't pick her up or give her a proper hug, but she loves the rabbit my colleague gave her, and I think she wanted to play with a puzzle yesterday, but her head hurt."

"Did she tell you that?"

"Not with words."

Dr. Goldman nodded and jotted down a few notes. "Do your colleagues spend a lot of time here with you?"

"Periodically, but they work all day. We're a close team, and once she goes home they'll be around more often."

"If they'll be in this evening I'd like to come by and just observe for a while. Would you call these colleagues your friends?"

He shrugged. "We're really a family, I guess." He watched Tony for a long minute; he was animatedly reading to Sara from a book about a village of bugs that lived in a windowbox high above Manhattan. She was listening intently and raised one finger to bush at the page he was reading from.

"Yeah, that's a little kitty-cat. Do you like kitties?"

She nodded slightly and her cheeks went pink.

"They're cute, huh?"

She nodded again, and he kept reading, switching voices to speak for another character.

Dr. Goldman took more notes. Gibbs bristled a bit and made a note to give everyone a raise.

"You're not going to stroll in here and make my family feel like a freakshow, are you? They don't go for that. _I_ don't go for that."

"No," she assured him confidently. "I will be looking for a series of behavioral indicators in Sara's interactions with you and your colleagues. My intention is not to make you or your friends uncomfortable, and I have a strict policy of no judgement. I know families come in all forms, Agent Gibbs."

"Ok," he said mildly. She gathered her belongings and rose to leave. "I'll come back around six. Have a good day, Agent Gibbs. Bye, Sara."

Sara didn't respond; the weekly specials at Twiddlebug Supermarket were too good to pass up.

. . . . .

Tony didn't walk into the bullpen, he strutted, and peered over the bookshelf between Gibbs' and Ziva's desk. She was scowling at her computer screen and grinding a pencil point into her desk blotter.

"Hey, Zee-vah, anything new?"

"Child Services is hustling me about how we found Sara," she spat. "How am I supposed to tell them that Gibbs filed a false nine-one-one report so that we could get in the house?"

"Hassling. They're _hassling_ you, Dav-eed. And you're not telling them anything. Direct the call back to DCPD and let those trolls deal with it. Guess who got a high-five this morning from Sara?"

"Dr. Levine?" She deadpanned.

"Wrong, my ninja. That would be one Very Special Agent DiNozzo: Baby Whisperer."

She rolled her eyes. "Sara is not a baby and you probably high-fived yourself because you felt left out. Or maybe she just felt sorry for you. It is not my fault or hers you have a jealous streak. It is also not my fault that she may just love me best." She narrowed her eyes at him, tapping the eraser end of the broken pencil against the dimple in her chin. The very _cute _dimple_, _Tony's traitorous brain reminded him. He grinned again. "Gibbs is going to call me to babysit first. You can come along, but I'm not splitting the pay with you. Unless you bring beer, of course."

Ziva snorted. "The only reason Gibbs would call you to babysit is because you -_one,_ need the money to support your expensive habits and -_two_, because you are a perpetual teenager."

Her cell chirped and she answered it with a flourish, scowling again. "David."

Gibbs was on the other end. "I don't need to be refereeing your fights anymore. I have an _actual_ child to worry about."

Her eyebrows went up in an impressive imitation of Sara. "Gibbs, good morning. How's Sara?"

Tony bust out laughing, slapped a hand over his mouth, and used the other to slap himself in the back of the head.

"Oh I'm fine, Ziver. Thank you for asking. And Sara is fine, too. Where are we on Kettle's case?"

"Off to the lawyers, Gibbs." She lowered her voice. "Social services is giving me trouble about being the first on scene at the Marion house. Apparently Mrs. Marion thinks I was trespassing, according to a phone call from CFSA."

"Bull," he spat. "Pass it on to the clowns at DCPD. I'm not dealing with this beaurocratic shi-" He cut himself off abruptly and Ziva could here another adult in the background.

"I gotta go, people PT is here for an eval. Stop by later." The line went dead.

Ziva laid the phone backon her desk. Tony smirked and leaned back in his chair.

"Told ya," he teased.

She pulled a face at him and picked up the office line and dialed a number from a scratch pad. "Yes, Detective Eberle? I have a message for you from the Children and Family Services Association."

. . . .

Preparations for Sara's release began with the psychiatrist's visit and continued with an evaluation with Julie, the blonde and perky physical therapist. She showed him how to care for Sara's injuries—to fasten and adjust the sling and swath that would protect her broken arm and collarbone, to clean the pinsites on her hips, to monitor her breathing and watch for pneumonia, and signs to look for in case her post-concussive syndrome suddenly took a turn for the worst. She had just finished teaching him a series of stretches when Ziva walked in carrying Thai food for two. She set the take-out bag on the rolling table and reached for Sara. Julie promised to return bearing pharmacy forms.

"Hi my little _shaifeleh_. Are you having a good morning?"

Sara lit up. "Zeeba," she sighed, offering her free hand for holding.

Ziva just about crowed with happiness. She smiled broadly and pressed their palms together, lacing their fingers. "You are so bright-eyed. I hope you slept well last night."

Gibbs sighed and opened a container of Pad See-Ew. "Not hardly," he mumbled and fixed her with a gaze that meant _we'll talk later_.

Ziva opened her own lunch of red curry and mixed in some rice. Sara watched, curiosity in her seawater eyes.

"Want a bite?" Ziva asked. "It's chicken and rice and a sweet red sauce." She loaded her fork with a tiny bite of rice and dabbed off most of the sauce with a napkin.

"Ziver, I'm not sure that's ok," Gibbs warned gently.

"I'm sure it's fine, Gibbs. Why not let her try something new?" She offered the fork and Sara accepted. She chewed and swallowed, cheeks flush, and hummed in approval. Ziva offered another bite. Gibbs watched as Sara proceded to eat two bites of chicken, two of broccoli, and one of mushroom before she leaned back and said, "You eat, Zeeba."

Julie returned with some forms that granted Gibbs a pediatric wheelchair and a specially adapted carseat. He signed, mouth full, and agreed to have the technician give him a brief seminar how they both worked. The overwhelmed feeling crept upon him again and he squelched it. Julie must've sensed it, because she tore off his copy of the forms and crouched down to meet his eye.

"Remember that this is only temporary. Before you know it she'll be running around and making you crazy like any other kid."

"I hope so," he said quietly. Ziva was engrossed in her food, and he was almost surprised to find that Sara had pinned her gaze on him. He smiled at her. The corner of her mouth quirked upward and his heart nearly stopped; it was the first real attempt at a smile he'd ever seen. Tossing his box of fried rice on the table he went to her, arcing his arm around her top of her head, stroking her cheek with his other hand. He kissed her head and breathed on her hair.

"My sweet pea," he murmured. "My Sara."

She reached up and wrapped her good arm around his neck to draw him down closer. "My Gibbs," she breathed, closing her eyes.

Julie stacked her papers and made her way to the door. "See what I mean?" She called.

He smiled at her from where he bent low over Sara and notice that Ziva was scrubbing at her eyes with closed fists.

"Tired, David?"

She looked up at him, chin trembling. "Allergies," she lied unconvincingly. "Just allergies."

He snorted and looked down at Sara, who had opened her eyes and was gazing at him with such love and awe that he, too, choked up.

Swallowing thickly, he said, "Guess they're contagious. I seem to have picked them up from you."

She guffawed softly and yanked two tissues out of the box on the table, one for each of them.


	16. Shelter From the Storm

_I came in from the wilderness, _

_ a creature void of form._

_ -Bob Dylan, "Shelter From the Storm."_

Gibbs was leaning over her when she woke up. He was petting her hair—everyone did that—and speaking over his shoulder to Dr. Levine. She did not like Dr. Levine, but she did like Gibbs. She liked him a lot. She like his silver hair and the cup he carried that smelled bitter and dark. She liked his clean shirts and how he never took off his belt.

Her head ached. In fact, her whole self hurt. The nurses gave her medicine that took the pain away, but it also made her very sleepy. She didn't want to sleep anymore. Yesterday a big boy—bigger than Miles, but not as big as Tony—brought in wheelchair that was just for her. It had pink on it and the boy and Gibbs spent a lot of time measuring her with a white tape and making adjustments all over. There was another seat, too, for her—it was also pink—but it didn't have wheels because it went in the car. It had straps that they boy buckled and unbuckled. Gibbs did it to, but he was better at it. Gibbs was better at a lot of things.

Tatiana had taken all the stuff off. The light that went on her finger, the needle in her hand, the squeezing cuff around her good arm—it was all gone, now, and Ziva came in with two big bags. Gibbs was better at things, but Ziva made things better. She was always warm and calm, even when Sara felt like the hospital bed was going to swallow her up like a whale. She knew about whales. Tim brought her a book about them. Sara liked Tim, and probably loved Gibbs and Ziva. She smiled and wiggled just a little, little bit in her big bed.

But they were doing things now and not looking at her. Ziva had her bags open and was rustling around with the things inside, laying them—all colors—on the end of the bed. Gibbs had papers and papers in his hands and was talking _again _to Tatiana and Dr. Levine. Sara frowned; was something about to happen? A bad feeling blossomed in her chest and she put her hand there to make it stop, but it didn't work. The long cut in her belly sent a zap to tell her it was mad, but she ignored it. She didn't care about any long cut right now.

Ziva smiled at Sara and held out two...shirts? They were colorful. She maybe liked that.

"Which one, _shaifeleh_?"

She didn't know. Why was Ziva asking such a question?

"Which one would you like to wear for the big trip home?"

Sara froze. _Home?_ What? The busy place at N Street? Another house with another family? The bad feeling got worse. The long cut got angrier with her. They were taking her back to Mr. Godwin and the bars on the windows. They were taking her back there and she'd have to sweep and mop the kitchen floor because it was all a mess when she...left.

A bumping sound happened in her ears. Then it happened more. And still more. She had done something terrible, she was sure, and now these kind people were tired of her and she needed to be punished for being so, so stupid. Why was there no more air? Was she suffocating?

. . . .

Gibbs was reading over the final discharge instructions Dr. Levine had given him, but a raspy, mechanical sound distracted him. It was loud and grating like a manhole cover dragged on wet macadam. Gibbs glanced around the room, then at Sara, and identified the source immediately. She was staring at the new clothing that lay at the foot of the bed and in the throes of a serious panic attack. Ziva was trying to break her focus—waving a hand in front of her eyes, shaking her good hand gently—but it wasn't working. His own heart quickened.

"Hey, kiddo. Talk to me," he prodded. "Tell me what's going on _right now_."

Sara's eyes closed tightly and she was gasping, sheet fisted in her hand. Her face went red, then purplish as oxygen deprivation set in. The nurses had already removed her PulseOx, but he knew this was bad, especially for someone with a serious concussion.

"Sara, stop right now," he demanded. Fear laced his voice and he didn't care who heard. But she did—the panting stopped and her eyes flew open in sheer terror.

"Tell me what's wrong. Please, Sar."

She gazed at him for a long time, breathing hard, then at Ziva, and burst into tears. Gibbs scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration, and Ziva smoothed Sara's sweaty curls away from her face, shushing her gently.

"_Shaifeleh_, we cannot fix it if you don't tell us what's wrong. Are you hurting? What is the matter?"

Ziva got no coherent response; only loud, desperate wails followed her question.

"There's no need to cry, sweet girl. You are going home today. Everyone is so excited."

Sara stopped sobbing long enough to say, _"No_," and threw her hand over her face.

Gibbs, who'd stepped back, finally recognized the problem and felt like an idiot. Everyone had assumed that Sara knew she was going home with him. No one had bothered to explain that she wasn't going back to a group home or to—God forbid—the Marion house. They'd all thought that the love and care she was receiving from them was enough of an answer to the question of what was happening next. And they'd thought dead wrong. He slid over next to her on the mattress.

"Sar, you're going home with me. With _us_. You're going to live with me and Ziva and Tony and Abby and Tim are all going to visit with us all the time. They'll be over for dinner and weekends and they're going to help me take very good care of you. All of them are like my family, and families take care of each other."

She'd put her tears on hold and was listening to him intently, eyes fixed somewhere in the space above the window. His voice had taken on a singsong quality as he spoke, and he carried on.

"Ziva and I are going to put you in your new car seat, and we're going to drive all the way to Maryland, where my house is. You have a new bed there, and plenty of things to do and food to eat. And we don't have to wait for Saturday to have story time; we can read whenever you'd like."

She looked at him then. Really looked at him—took in his face, his posture, his olive-green polo shirt and jeans. She lifted her hand and poked at the buttons on his shirt.

"You, Gibbs."

He sighed and brushed his chin-stubble over her hair. "Yes, sweet pea. Me. How about we help Ziva get you all dressed?"

Her fist tightened on his shirt and it meant he wasn't to move. "Ok," she agreed quietly.

Ziva had retrieved a damp cloth from the bedroom, and she ran it now over Sara's sweaty face and hands, then held out two colorful articles of clothing—one more pink, the other more green.

"Which one, _Shaifeleh_?"

Sara couldn't choose, so Ziva held out the green. "Like Gibbs," she amended, and tugged it gently over her head while Gibbs undid the sling and swath, then re-fastened it over her new outfit. Ziva stepped back and put her hands to her face.

"It's _so cute_," she breathed, and her squeaky, maternal tone made Gibbs wonder how the hell she had ever been a Mossad assassin. But he'd also had to agree with her—the garment they'd put her in was actually a little pique tennis dress, with short sleeves and a button placket like his own polo. Sara toyed with the hem idly and blushed pink.

"S'new," she said, surprised.

He nodded. "No more old clothes for you, Sar. Just new ones. And in the right size."

Ziva looked at him pointedly. "Which is currently a Toddler Two," she said, and he was aghast at not just how small Sara was, but at how she'd know which sizes to buy without having her there to try them on. She bent and rustled through the bag again, drawing out two long striped—socks? Tights? And began to draw them up Sara's legs. They stopped mid-thigh.

"What in the world is that, Ziver?"

"Legwarmers," she answered plainly. "It's a bit brisk outside, and this will keep the straps of the car seat from chafing the tops of her legs. Now, are we ready to leave?"

Sara sucked in a breath and reached for him again.

"No, sweet pea," he sighed. "Only with Gibbs, remember?"

She nodded and lay her head on his chest.

. . . .

Gibbs had his hand on the handle of the front door when it swung out of his grasp and Abby appeared, wearing a blue "Kiss the Cook" apron over her clothes. She'd thrust her spatula at him—greasy and covered with bits of scrambled egg—and reached for Sara. Sara went willingly to her, but Gibbs was uneasy.

"Care, Abby," he cautioned. "You have to be very delica—_watch! _You can't bump the fixator. It'll hurt her."

She shot him a look, and turned to Sara. "Am I hurting you, Lamby-kins?"

"No," she said softly. She wrapped her arm around Abby's neck and laid her brow against her cheek. "Jus' careful." She warned.

"That's why we made you the perfect spot in the recliner," Abby supplied for Gibbs' benefit, rather than Sara's. "No bumping will happen there."

She carried her over to a brand new reclining easy chair that had been layered with fleece blankets and extra cushioning. It was already laid back to about forty-five degrees—high enough that Sara could see what was going on, but laid flat enough that she could be comfortable. Abby laid her down, and Sara sighed.

"Sure beats a hospital bed, huh?"

Sara nodded. "Yes," she said simply, and closed her eyes. The drive had made her very sleepy.

Abby spun and addressed Gibbs and Ziva, who had carried in the two overflowing boxes of toys that they'd brought back from the hosptal. Gibbs, ever the magician, tugged the rabbit out of the box and tucked it under Sara's arm. She drew it to her chest and sighed again without opening her eyes.

"I took some measurements and did a little Googling. This angle will keep her upright enough to prevent pneumonia, but not so much that the fixator will put pressure on her hips. We need keep a lookout for bedsores on her back and...tush. Hopefully the fleece will prevent that. Ziva also bought clothes in the softest fabric that wasn't cotton—it doesn't wick. Did you know that clothing companies make kids' stuff almost strictly cotton? Except for pyjamas, of course, because they need to be fire-retardant-"

"_Abby_," he cut in. "I think you've done a great job. Thank you so much." He pointed at Sara, who had fallen fast asleep, then brought her to him in a tight hug.

"You are a really good daddy, Papa Gibbs. I just want to help as much as I can."

He rubbed her back through her orange jack-o-lantern t-shirt. "I know, Abbs. You have such a big heart. Try not to let it eat you up, ok?"

She pulled back and mock-saluted. "Yes ma'am," she jested. She headed for the kitchen.

Gibbs had seen everyone's cars parked out front when they'd arrived, and cooking noises carried into the living area from the kitchen. Tony and Tim's voices rose and fell as they discussed breakfast sausage and the merits of casing versus no casing. Tim won, no doubt, because Tony had fallen silent.

Ziva was standing in the foyer, where she had a vantage point on almost the entire first floor. She flinched when something clattered to the kitchen floor and Tim uttered a muffled oath.

"Long week, huh?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It is not even ten o'clock in the morning," she huffed. "On Wednesday."

"So?"

The contents of the refridgerator rattled as the door sealed shut. Abby asked for more black pepper. Tony groaned.

"I never had this, Gibbs."

"Had what?"

"This. Family-noise. My house was always deadly silent, even when Tali was a babbling toddler."

He shrugged, trying not to minimize her experience. "You have it now, Ziver. And it'll get old after a while. You'll only wish for silence." He stretched out on the sofa, propping his feet, still in sneakers, on the arm. Tony emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

"Cute," he drawled, gesturing to a snoozing Sara. "Huh, Probette?"

She mustered a sad smile, and he settled his arm around her shoulder in a way that was more than friendly. Gibbs opened one eye and shot him a warning glare. Tony gazed back defiantly and ushered Ziva into the dining room, where the table had been set with festive abandon, and a _Welcome Home, Sara_ banner was taped to the wall.

"I think our guest of honor is going to sleep through brunch," he said softly.

"Both of them," she agreed, and yawned widely.

"All three," he upped, and drew her close. She settled her head under his jaw, but he pulled away."

"No, my ninja. Not here. Eat, and then you're going straight upstairs."

She shook her head, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "No, I only asked for the morning off. Everyone did."

Tim and Abby were watching as they washed pots and pans, heads turned like owls toward the dining room. He eyed them menacingly and they both turned back to their task, chastized.

"I'll cover with Vance," he whispered. "You're going to work yourself into the ground if you keep this up. Sleep today, and tomorrow you work."

She suddenly felt very pale and drawn. "I am fine, Tony, but I will stay here to make sure Gibbs and Sara are comfortably settled."

"Uh huh," he snorted. "And you can do that from the guest bed." Ziva just sagged against him. He pulled her back by the shoulders and directed her to a seat at the table. Sensing it was finally safe, Tim and Abby joined them. What was supposed to be a joyous occasion devolved into a quick but companionable meal. No one was upset, though, because it meant they were able to clean up and get back to the Navy Yard in time for a noon start.

Gibbs and Sara slept on as Tony steered Ziva up the stairs and Abby and Tim donned boots and holsters.

"Sleep, ninja. We'll be back for dinner."

She nodded and fumbled with the zippers on her boots. Tony knew better than to step in, so he closed the front door, locked it—just in case—and slipped the key in his pocket.


	17. Rocks and Water

_I will be rocks, I will be water._

_ I will leave this to my daughter:_

_ 'lift your head up in the wind.'_

_ -Deb Talan, "Rocks and Water."_

The doorbell woke him. Gibbs shook his head and noticed the shortened shadows; midday, summer, a forgotten appointment with Susan McNamyre. Light footfalls on the steps alerted him to another adult in the the house. The cocking of a Sig told him it was Ziva.

"Stand down," he ordered, voice gruff with sleep. "And for God's sake, put that thing in the safe where it belongs. There's a child in the house." Footfalls traipsed back up the stairs. He got up and answered the door, glancing at Sara. She'd fallen back to sleep.

"Susan."

"Agent Gibbs. I'm glad to see that Sara is out of the hospital and recovering nicely. Care to show me around?"

She handed him a clipboard full of paperwork and he scratched his signature at every X, then tore off his copy and added them to the growing pile of papers on the dining room sideboard. Ziva appeared at the threshhold, barefoot and without her gun.

"Hello," she said cautiously. Susan had her head in the refridgerator and only spared her the barest of glances.

"Do you have the instructions from the nutritionist?" He returned to the pile of papers but she waved a dismissive hand. "If you say you have it then it's fine. I just need to make sure Sara has an appropriate sleeping space." Gibbs noted that she didn't say _bedroom_ and led her up the stairs.

From the hallway he could see the guest bedroom; the rumpled duvet told him Ziva had been sleeping there. The bathroom had been scrubbed clean, his bedroom had been straightened and vacuumed, and the third—Sara's room—was closed. He pushed open the door allowed Susan in ahead of him. Ziva watched from the top steps, arms slung over the banister.

Gibbs knew Tony and Tim had been working in there, but he didn't expect such beautiful results. The old, stained carpet had been torn up to reveal the original hardwood underneath. A white captain's bed stood in the middle of the room, a colorful rag rug in front of it. There were new curtains at the windows and some low shelves and bins for storage. Best off all, though, was the paint. The pink was covered, and in its place was a soothing blue-green—seawater—cool and relaxing. A series of small prints hung on the wall—Chagall, he noted with some pride—and a small, rectangular box hung at an angle on the doorframe. A mezuzah. _Ziva_, he thought proudly, and turned a smug smile to Susan.

"Is this an appropriate sleeping space?" His tone was mocking, arms crossed.

Susan nodded and eyed him thoughtfully before turning back towards the stairs. Ziva went ahead of them, but made it clear to Gibbs that she was eavesdropping. Susan spoke to him over her shoulder.

"Agent Gibbs, my associates at CFSA said that you are interested in adopting Sara."

"So?"

She offered him a smile, and right then he realized that she was not the enemy anymore. "You'll need a lawyer. I'm sure there's someone at NCIS who can make a referral. When I return after the ninety-day trial period, I can bring the paperwork you'll need to fill out with legal councel."

"And how long would it take after that?"

Susan shrugged. "It depends. Legally, we are bound to do a search for any extended family she may have. If no one comes forward, then it can take a matter of months to draw up the paperwork and get in front of a judge. "

He didn't like the "extended family" comment, but knew to keep his mouth shut. Susan gathered her things and make a few marks on the forms he'd signed. Sara was awake; Ziva had settled herself on the couch and Sara was on her lap; both were watching with cautious interest. Gibbs expected a scene after the morning's tantrum, but she only fixed Susan with her patent vacant stare.

"Everything looks fine, Agent Gibbs. I'll see you in September."

He closed the door behind her and turned around. Sara was still staring and Ziva was toying idly with her curls.

"Wasn't as bad as I thought," he muttered, and lowered himself to the cushion next to them. Ziva hummed in agreement and Sara's vacant stare evaporated. She was studying the living room, taking in the location of her books and toys and the proximity to the kitchen. Sighing, she leaned back and arced her neck towards him.

"Gibbs," she said softly.

"Yeah, sweet pea?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, hesitating. He waited and Ziva rubbed her arm encouragingly.

"_S'there sum food_?"

He slid forward on the cushion, prepared to stand. Sara cowered, but only momentarily. He made a note to never hover over her like that again. She came easily into his arms, though, and they went together to the kitchen. Three plates—two big, one small—were on the top shelf in the refridgerator, ready to be microwaved.

"See what our friends left for us?" He muttered absently. She eyed the plates and swallowed reflexively.

"Let's heat these up and we'll have a late lunch together, ok?"

Sara nodded at him, awed. Gibbs just smiled and offered a tiny bite of apple on a fork purchased just for her.

. . . .

Tony plodded up to Vance's office, shoes scuffing lightly on the commercial-grade carpet. He'd been called up the minute he'd considered sneaking out for a coffee, and now his fet dragged with fatigue. When he opened the door, he found Vance in his chair and the shades drawn.

"Nice work on the Kettle case, Agent DiNozzo. That's definitely going in your file."

"Thank you, sir." Tony smiled tightly and put his hands behind his back, hoping his posture would conceal his discomfiture—Vance's office made him nervous. Far too many disciplinary actions were discussed in there.

"I just got word from Metro PD. They've put a lot of man-hours into Keyman's trafficking ring, and they've discovered some military involvement."

Tony's smile tightened further. "And how do they think we can help with that? Do we have a case without a dead soldier?"

Vance frowned at his hesitation. "A dead body doesn't mean NCIS can't do anything. The higher-ups don't like their boys dirtying their hands in illegal opioids. I was told to put you and McGee on the case. If you perform like you did on your previous assignment you could potentially be looking at a promotion, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony maintained his composure. "We're on it, sir. I'll meet with McGee immediately about this and we'll have some strategy for you by the end of the day."

Vance nodded and Tony was out the door, file in one hand and the other clenched in a tight fist.

"McGoo," he called, bouncing down the stairs. "We got some special chores this afternoon."

Tim looked up from the email he'd been typing furiously.

"It's follow-up on the narcotics from the Kettle case. DCPD wants us to check into some _U.S. Military Involvement'." _He'd deliberately lowered his voice and clipped his speech, but Tim wasn't buying his flippancy.

"Rumors of military drug trafficking have been around since World War II. There is evidence that we worked in cooperation with the Italian Mafia to keep cocaine derivatives in the European market. And our presence in Vietnam brought cheap marijuana onto American soil."

Tony glared at him.

"Or so they say," he amended weakly.

"Whatever, McDeagle. You and I are going to track down the people on this list. That's our job for the rest of the week. I say we go nine-to-five. No overtime, no stakeouts. They're all active members with clean records; I don't think these names are going to yield anything but a few PFCs who like to party with Mary Jane. Alright, McProbie?"

"Alright. How's Ziva, by the way? Heard from her since we got in?"

"She texted me twenty minutes ago. I guess the social worker interrupted Gibbs Family Nap Time."

"So you're going home to a cranky and over-tired Moussad Assassin? Wouldn't want to be you, DiNozzo."

Tony scowled and Tim knew he was right. "Who I go home to is none of your damn business. Now get on the phone. Gibbs is grilling steaks tonight."

. . . .

Gibbs pulled four fat ribeyes out of the freezer and laid them in the sink to thaw, then opened the bags from the hospital pharmacy. He and Ziva had laid out a chart to keep track of Sara's medications and dose scheduling. There were painkillers for day and night, an expectorant, two types of sedatives, an anti-emetic, and supplies for pin-site care. He put those bottles—sterile saline, peroxide, idodine—on the stairs, so he'd remember to carry them up to the bathroom later.

He turned, ready to go back to the kitchen, when the doorbell chimed again. Blowing out a breath, he tamped down his irritation and opened the door. Two plainclothes Metro PD detectives flashed their badges at him. He was comforted by the fact that they were both female.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm Detective Rebecca Nachshon with the Seventh District. This is my partner, Detective Angela Morales. May we step in and speak with you?"

He stepped aside, wordlessly welcoming them into the house, and showed them into the dining room. Ziva's ears had perked up at their introductions, but she made no effort to join them; she and Sara were learning how to play _Candyland_, and she figured focusing on their game would keep everyone's stress level at a minimum. For the moment, at least.

"Coffee?" He offered, already headed for the kitchen. Receiving two nods, he set the machine to brew and returned to the dining table, settling in next to Morales.

"GW University Hospital just released Sara Cohen's records to us. We're here to take her statement about what happened on Friday evening and Saturday morning." She spoke softly but her tone was firm and direct. Gibbs bristled. He knew this was necessary, but felt so powerless. He was usually the one asking questions, not answering them.

"Fine," he said slowly. "But the minute she gets upset we're calling it off. You can come back another time."

. . . .

Detective Morales' demeanor softened considerably once Sara had been carried into the dining room and settled on Gibbs' lap; the sight of Sara's injuries had such an effect on most people. She spoke to her softly and without condescension.

"So Sara, can you tell me how you got hurt?"

Sara lifted the hem of her dress and examined the fixator, then the incision on her abdomen before lowering it again and glancing at Ziva modestly. "Hurts," she said quietly, and looked to Gibbs for what to do, eyes wide and wet.

He nodded toward the detectives. "Answer the question, Sar."

Her eyes glazed over and she rubbed absently at her broken arm. "He kicking me," she said. Her voice was clear, but here expression was vacant, and everyone knew she'd gone far, far away. "He kicking me. And throwing. He grabbed." She lifted her hand to her throat and prodded the bruises with two fingers. The marks were healing, greenish.

Nachshon wanted to clarify for the digital recorder. "He kicked you and grabbed your throat. What do you mean by 'throwing,' Sara?"

Sara looked over Gibbs shoulder, towards the kitchen. Eight eyes followed her gaze. Nachshon wrote _crime scene photos_ in her notebook and turned it toward Gibbs. He nodded.

"Who was this person who was kicking you and grabbing your throat, Sara?" Detective Nachshon put her notebook away, leaned forward, and wrapped both hands around her mug.

"Mr. Godwin," she replied softly. "He punching me, too. _Punchingandkicking_. _Fosserkid_." Gibbs shushed her gently and ran a hand over her hair.

Detective Morales put both hands on the table in front of her and asked, "What happened after that, Sara?"

She didn't answer, but her gaze moved around the room, fixing momentarily on every face around the table. Gibbs' stomach had taken up its churning as soon as the detectives had arrived, and now its tossing increased exponentially.

"Yelling. And someone on me. N'my shirt off."

"Did the same person yell at you and hit you and punch you?"

"Dunno."

"What do you mean by 'someone on me'?"

"Him's on me. On..." Sara drifted off, throwing her hand over her face, dropping her chin to her chest. Gibbs tightened his grip and rested his chin on the crown of her head.

"Go ahead, Sar," he whispered. "You're doing a great job."

She fiddled with the hem of her dress again, rolling it between her index finger and thumb. Gibbs noticed that the raw, red rash that bloomed in the webbing between her fingers was subsiding, probably because of the moisturizer Ziva slathered her with morning and night.

"_Him'sonme_," she repeated, not looking up.

"Mr. Godwin was on you?" Morales spoke this time.

Sara took a steadying breath. "Mr. Shawn."

Gibbs and Ziva exchanged a look, relieved to have her corroboating testimony to match Tony's interrogation.

"Can you tell us more about what you mean by 'on you'?"

Sara flinched and gripped Gibbs' sleeve. "He.." she fumbled, "He..." She swallowed with difficulty and started over. "Mr. Shawn on me. He taked his pants..and he lay on me and he taked my clothes off." She paused and closed her eyes.

Ziva knew better than to let her go there, and prodded her gently. "Open up, Sara. Stay with us."

She obeyed and rested her gaze on Ziva for a long time. When she continued, her voice was robotic.

"He lay on me no-clothes and then he put something up...inside...it...I...I..._No._" She dissolved then into senselessness, twisting around as best she could to wrap her unencumbered arm around Gibbs' neck. He soothed her, rocking in his seat, and pressed his lips to her hair.

"Do you remember anything after that, Sar?" He spoke into her hair.

"No. _Nonono_," she mumbled, still clinging to him. He rocked her and whispered how proud he was into her hair.

Detective Nachshon rose and turned off the recorder. Detective Morales followed suit.

"We're sorry for doing this," she said softly.

Gibbs nodded, "We do what we have to," he said quietly. "You have to come back." It wasn't a question; he knew they didn't have enough testimony yet to file all possible charges.

Nachshon spoke up. "We'll give her a few days. But in the mean time, here are our cards. Call us if something comes up. And take care. We'll show ourselves out."

Ziva followed them to the door, locked it behind them, and returned to the table. Sara was still, listless. Long, quiet moments passed. The shadows grew longer, the light turned gold.

"Why don't we all go for a short walk," Ziva said finally. "It might help to get out of the house a bit. I bet when we come back Tim and Abby and Tony will be here and ready to eat dinner. What do you think, _shaifeleh_?"

Sara pointed one questioning finger at her wheelchair and turned to gaze out the window. The neighborhood was pre-rush-hour quiet, no cars whooshed by, no children hustled from the day-camp bus stop. A flock of starlings banked and wheeled above the trees, then dropped, lighting onto the vacant lawns across the street.


	18. These Are the Fables

_Heaven shook hell,_

_ and down from its pockets._

_ The ring in your bell;_

_ it fell through your hands._

_ -New Pornographers, "These Are the Fables."_

Quantico was at siesta. The houses had drawn away from the street as if shielding themselves from the heat radiating from the midday macadam. The sun was high overhead, and Tony and Tim had to run the air conditioning at full-blast to keep from sweating through their suits.

The Bachelor Enlisted Quarters were just as quiet. They were buzzed in by a young Private in standard-issue glasses, their shoes squeaking on the brand-new linoleum tile. The whole building was new, and the fluorescent lighting in the hallway burned their eyes nearly as bad as the sun. Tony lowered his sunglasses.

" Ohio State didn't have bunks like this," he muttered, but honestly couldn't recall what his first dorm room had looked like. He frowned and cursed the plastic storage tubs filled with a mixture of Kool-Aid and grain alcohol.

"Free wi-fi," Tim countered, and Tony snorted. "McIntertube."

Room one-oh-seven was a double-occupancy at the end of the first-floor hallway. The door was open—common dorm practice that meant the occupant was up to receive visitors—and Private Sam Amick sat at his desk, hunched over a field manual. His leg bounced.

"Private Amick?" Tim called. "Agents DiNozzo and McGee with NCIS. We'd like to ask you a few questions. Do you have a moment?"

The young man jumped up from the desk, knocking his book to the floor.

"Yes sir," he replied quickly, and stood at attention.

Tony couldn't help but feel sorry for him; the kid was lily-white and terrified. He and Tony stepped into the room and closed the door behind them.

"Do you know a man named Shawn Keyman?"

Amick's eyes traveled back and forth between Tim and Tony. "Yes," he replied slowly, and with feigned informality.

McGee held out Keyman's mugshot. "How so?"

Amick hesitated, reached out to touch the photo, then drew his hand back.

"Me and some friends went to a party off-base—a buddy of mine has some friends in DC. We were just hanging out, playing Xbox and he came with some old guy I didn't know. They just hung out for a bit and then they left."

DiNozzo scoffed. "Did he give you anything? Or anyone else?"

Amick's face reddened. He looked down and scuffed the toe of his boot on the tile. "He gave me a nickel bag. I mean, it was just to mellow out, you know?"

DiNozzo took the sympathetic route. "Hey, it's stressful up in here. Drill Sergeants barking at your all day, racked with a hundred of your closest frenemies, coursework high school never prepared you for. Did you see Keyman at all after that?"

Amick shook his head vehemently. "No. Never. And I didn't even smoke the whole bag. I flushed the second joint."

DiNozzo nodded. "Of course you did. Who were the friends you were with that night?"

The kid stuttered for a minute. "Um, PFC Brent Hazelbaker. He lives on the forth floor. That was his buddy's house we were at." He waved his hands around. "I don't hang with him anymore. Can I get back to my marks manual, please? I have a field exam tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred."

McGee eyed DiNozzo for a moment over his notebook, then nodded curtly. "Sure. Thanks for your help."

"Good luck," DiNozzo added cheerfully, and they closed the door behind them.

McGee was aghast. "What were you thinking, Tony? We could have brought him in for possession, at least."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me, McNarc? The kid was about to pee himself. Betcha ten bucks he's going to call his mother and confess everything before lights out. And we can't bag 'em for possession if he doesn't actually have any weed. You heard him—he flushed it."

"We could get a search warrant and find out for sure," Tim offered. "Or maybe get a tap on his phone tonight."

Tony shrugged. "Sure. Ask Vance for the manpower to do that. He'll laugh you all the way to the parking garage. But I bet Private Hazelbaker knows something. You know those PFCs and their buddies with Xboxes."

. . . .

The fourth floor was not nearly as deserted as the first. A few doors were open, and several recruits were hanging around, listening to music and half-heartedly discussing their coursework. The floor was reserved for recruits who had already completed Basic and were continuing in specialized areas. The last door at the end of the hall was closed and reggae music emanated from inside. Tony rolled his eyes again.

"Peter Tosh, really?"

McGee was about to launch into a detailed explanation of the use of marijuana in Rastafari religious practice, but Tony's cop-knock on the door stopped him.

"Hazelbaker? NCIS. Open up."

To their surprise the room did not smell like weed, but Hazelbaker was bare-chested and red-eyed. He stared dazedly for a moment. Tony spotted a Bob Marley poster on the wall and a lava lamp on the desk. Not standard-issue at all, but not terribly surprising, given the condition of the occupant.

"Yeah?"

"We have a few questions for you."

"'Bout what?"

"Shawn Keyman." Tony held out the mugshot again. "You know him?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"He's in lockup at Central. We heard he's selling weed to some of your friends."

Hazelbaker shrugged. "Ain't my business."

DiNozzo shouldered the door to keep him from closing it. "Yeah, Private, it is your business. You're the only connection we can find between Keyman and the drugs on this base."

Hazelbaker tried to close the door on them, but DiNozzo was in the way. "Uh-uh." He scolded. "Put your shirt and boots on. You just earned yourself a trip to the Navy Yard courtesy of Agents DiNozzo and McGee. Guess you did shoot the deputy, chief."

. . . .

Hazelbaker sat numbly in interrogation. Arms on the table, palms up, his chin rested on his chest. Tony had to check twice to make sure he was conscious before entering the room. He carried Keyman's file from Metro PD.

"You want some water, Private? Maybe a soda?"

He nodded. "Sure, man."

DiNozzo motioned toward the two-way. "It's Agent DiNozzo, _man_." He sat, back to the mirror. "How do you know Shawn Keyman?"

"He comes around." Hazelbaker was deliberately vague, shifting his eyes innocently around the room.

"Around? As in to sell?"

"Didn't say that."

Tony smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Listen, _Private_, these games don't go over well with me. You're looking at counts of Possession of Marijuana, Possession with the Intent to Sell, Possession of Paraphanelia, and Obstruction. Talking to me right now gets one of those off the table."

Private First Class Hazelbaker went white. "I buy week from Keyman once in a while, but I know his supplier isn't on base. He's an older guy, retired. I saw him once with Keyman but I didn't talk to him or anything."

"At that party?"

"No, he came on base. Keyman brought me a couple of cuts for some of the young guys."

Edward Godwin's face flashed inTony's mind. "Notice anything about him?"

Hazelbaker shook his head. "Not really. Typical retired Marine. Got all nostalgic about the new BE housing. His eyes were all weird—kinda yellow and watery. The guy kinda looked like someone's drunk uncle."

Tony pulled Godwin's mugshot. "Was it this guy?"

He shook his head again. "No, this guy wasn't white. He could've been like, Latin or Hawaiian or something. Maybe Indian."

Tony took a breath and changed direction. "Keyman ever get hot with anyone? Any fights?"

Another headshake. "No, he was always pretty chill. He never even yelled or anything, not even when we played Black Ops and everyone would get all pissed off."

"All right. We're going to have you work with a sketch artist to get an idea of what this guy looked like. You are going to the brig for the night. Tomorrow the charges will be finalized and we'll be having another conversation. Goodnight."

Gathering up the photos, he signaled with his chin to the two-way and left the room.

. . . .

The waiting area of the Metro Pediatric Center was floor-to-ceiling windows. Across the street was the parklike campus of the Howard University School of Divinity, where only a few students traversed the lawn and entered the buildings. Midsummer session was not quite the full-swing of fall, but he also doubted that it was a site of raging keggers and wet t-shirt contests.

The waiting room itself was ultra-modern and clean. A television tuned to ZNN broadcasted at a low volume, and he busied himself watching families and healthcare professionals bustle in and out of the two sets of double doors that flanked the room.

Dr. Goldman appeared before he lost interest in the news.

"Come on back, Gibbs. We have a lot to talk about."

She lead him through the double doors and down a wide, windowed hallway lined with treatment rooms. It was noisy; two children whizzed around on adapted tricycles, and a little boy grinned widely as he navigated his walker around the corner and towards a woman who grinned widely and held her arms out. They entered another, quieter space, and ducked through a single door into her office. To his surprise Sara wasn't there. Dr. Goldman noticed.

"Sara is down the hall with my assistants. She's learning all about what her routine is going to be when she comes back. Don't worry—they're very capable young women with a lot of experience. Please, have a seat." She motioned to two armchairs that faced each other in front of a low bookshelf filled with texts on child development and disorders. Gibbs blinked once and sat.

"As I told you when we met in the hospital, I performed a battery of tests on Sara today so that I could ascertain where her issues lie and how we can help her. I did an informal test for autism spectrum disorders today. Itt's called a CHAT test—Checklist for Autism in Toddlers—I know, before you start, that she isn't a toddler, but it's more of a broad-range test to determine if further evaluations are necessary."

She handed Gibbs a brochure about the test and he recognized it as one Abby gave him weeks ago.  
>"Based on this examination, I find that Sara is not on the autism spectrum. She doesn't flap her hands to deal with stress, she doesn't avoid eye contact, she can play with toys appropriately, and she doesn't confuse her 'I' and 'you' pronouns. There was no indication of repetitive or self-injurious behavior, correct?"<p>

"Correct," he repeated. "So why did that social worker think she was autistic?"

Dr. Goldman sighed and spoke again, but softly this time. "Agent Gibbs, Sara is deeply traumatized—from what she could piece together for me, it goes back much father that the incident that put her in the hospital and your care." She hesitated for a moment. "The behaviors we're seeing are the result of months and months of neglect and abuse. I will work with her to deal with the feelings from those events, and help her develop better coping methods for those emotions." She trailed off for a moment and shuffled the papers she had in her lap.

"Furthermore, Sara demonstrates the presence of some serious developmental delays, and it'll help me to help her if I order another CT scan after her post-concussive syndrome fades. But based on her speech, motor skills—barring complications from her injuries, of course—and emotional processing, Sara is not a five-year-old."

Gibbs just stared, confounded. "Her birth certificate says she turned five in May."

"Chronologically she is definitely five. But _developmentally—_in her mind, in her emotions, in her physical capabilities—she's about three and a half."

He ran a hand through his hair. "So what does that mean? Is she disabled? Can she have a normal life? Will she ever be able to go to school?"

Dr. Goldman held out her hands in an gesture meant to slow him down. "Gibbs, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now my team and I are going to put together a rehabilitation schedule of speech therapy, physical therapy, occupational therapy, and an cognitive remediation program. Basically, three days a week, you will bring her here as if she's going to school—get her a backpack, pack her a snack—and my team and I will work with her on all the things she needs. You are welcome to join us and welcome to bring your team members—I know you're all close. We encourage families to participate as much as possible in the therapeutic process. But as for right now, we need to focus on her day-to-day or week-to-week progress. There is a very good chance that she can overcome these issues and go on to live a happy and productive life." She smiled at him. "Be open to her needs and yours. Take a day off if you're overwhelmed, and likewise for her."

He nodded and she handed him a stack of papers—consent forms, brochures for the therapies she'd receive, hours and schedules and appointments. He rubbed one hand over his face and picked up the pen.

"Are you all right, Gibbs?"

"Yeah. I'm just...a little overwhelmed, I guess."

She nodded understandingly. "I know it's a lot, but you should be comforted by the fact that she is over the moon about you. Any time I said your name she smiled."

He almost laughed. "I think I've seen her smile maybe once in three weeks."

Dr. Goldman hummed. "You have to really look for it, Gibbs, but it's there. Sara is crazy about you. Every time you do something for her she feels like she's gotten a very valuable gift. Just watch—she'll tell you. It's just in her own way."

Julie, the physical therapist, came in then, pushing Sara's wheelchair and calling a greeting to him. Another young woman followed. Gibbs hadn't met her before, and studied her carefully as she smiled hello and exchanged some papers with Dr. Goldman. The woman was young and dark-skinned and she wore a brightly-colored scarf around her hair.

Sara lit up and wriggled a little in her seat. He bent to scoop her up and she introduced herself.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm Adjoa Secrest, Sara's Occupational Therapist. It's lovely to meet you." Like Julie, she smiled a big, white smile at him and they shook. Her hand was small and light in his big, callused one.  
>"I'll be working with Sara on a number of different things—cognitive skills, comprehension skills, social skills, coordination, and later balance and strength. You are welcome to join us. Here's a checklist of things you'll need to bring for our sessions for you, and one for her." She handed him two more papers. He would need to call Abby tonight if he wanted to understand what this all meant.<p>

She glanced down at Sara, who had slung her arm around Gibbs' neck and pressed her head against his shoulder. "Glad to be back with Gibbs, huh? Did you miss him while we were in the gym?"

Sara looked up at both of them. "Yeah," she answered softly.

"Well Julie and I had fun with you today and we are going to have even more fun when you come back next week." She narrowed her eyes in mock-suspicion. "Are you sure you're going to be ready to play with us next time?"

"Yes," Sara replied, shifting her weight a little. "Be ready f'you. Playing."

Adjoa smiled. "Ok, cutie pie. Next week we'll be ready. And bring that bunny; we don't want him to miss out on the fun."

Sara nodded shyly and looked up at Gibbs, then hid her face in his shoulder again.

Adjoa turned back to him. "We'll have more time for a full eval next week, Agent Gibbs. I need to see her oral motor skills and self-care skills, still, but that won't take long. We believe that play is children's work, so that's the means through which we do much of our work. Julie and I work together much of the time, especially for gross motor skills."

Julie handed him two other form at that point, and Dr. Goldman gave him a pen. He scrawled his signature as best he good with Sara in his arms, and gave them back. Both young woman bid him goodbye and left. He settled Sara back into her chair and tugged a wide-brimmed sun hat over her curls.

Dr. Goldman stood. "We have a lot of work to do, Gibbs, but we're all excited to start. See you Monday morning at nine."

Once in the hallway, he stopped, crouched in front of Sara, and looked up into her face. "You ready to do this, sweet pea?"

She nodded, looking first at him, then out the wide bank of windows onto the campus again. "Yeah, Gibbs. Ready. Do it."

"Ok," he agreed. "Then we'll do it."

He went to stand, but she focused on him again, a look of deep consternation on her face, eyes wide and clear.

"I love you, Gibbs," she said suddenly and with a clarity he'd never heard before from her. "I love you," she repeated.

He rocked back on his heels like he'd been struck. Righting himself, he scooped her into his arms and held her tight to his chest, kissing her cheeks and brow. "I love you too, sweet pea. My little bird. I love you."

Sara pointed to the parking lot. "Home, Gibbs?"

"Yeah, sweet pea. We're going home."


	19. Telling Stories

__I'm super sorry for the delay, gentle readers. This chapter was a long time in developing. Thanks for your patience, your wisdom, and your willingness to carry on. Love and love and love.

. . . .

_Leave the pity and the blame_

_for the ones who do not speak._

_ -Tracy Chapman, "Telling Stories."_

Tony stepped into Ziva's apartment and shrugged out of his jacket, grateful that a plate of shewarma, salad, pita, and hummus was on the table, the meat cooling under a paper napkin. Ziva was in the kitchen, crouching, placing the last frying pan in the cabinet next to the dishwasher. The slow descent into night had begun; crickets picked up their chirping in the bushes below the open kitchen window, cars on the street slowed, searching for parking spaces on the crowded block. Two doves cooed from the telephone wires. The television hummed in the corner, tuned to ZNN, and the fading summer light cast long shadows on the walls.

"Hey," he greeted softly, grabbing a chunk of meat with a triangle of pita. He motioned to her with it. "Grazie," he said, and took a bite, moaning in appreciation. Ziva typically cooked Israeli-style when it was just the two of them and she was _very_ good at it.

"_B'v'kasha_," she replied, and turned to face him but didn't make eye contact.

He forked cucumber and tomato into his mouth, still standing. "Any news on Hazelbaker's party-mates?"

Ziva pressed her palms against the countertop, thought for a minute, and nodded. She swallowed with an audible click, and Tony stopped chewing. There was a darkness about her that he hadn't seen for a very long time.

"One of them—another PFC—remembered Godwin bringing Sara to a party in Garfield Heights. He called it a 'shooting gallery' and left as fast as he could. Godwin stayed, though, with her." She took a breath. "I can't imagine what she's seen. What she's _experienced_. I mean, they had guns, Tony. Probably a lot of them. I searched the records, but there were no responders dispatched to the area that night, nor were any police reports filed later. "

Tony lost his appetite and pushed his plate away. "Ziva, a 'shooting gallery' is also known as a crack house. It's a place where addicts go to smoke or shoot up. This isn't some hookah bar, it's a place for hard use-heroin, crack, meth. Addicts use abandoned houses, warehouses, unoccupied apartments in housing projects. Nasty, nasty places full of used condoms, needles, rotting trash. I busted them in Baltimore all the time. Hookers would bring johns there if they were working for a fix, dealers would cruise to make quick sales on cheap rock. People would die in there-get killed in fights or OD, and it was usually the smell of decomp that got a neighbor or a beat cop to call us. And junkies would be in the house with the body and not even notice. Sometimes they'd pass out right next to the body and not know. Shooting galleries aren't all in the ghetto, either. Some of them were in bucolic suburbia."

Ziva blanched. "Oy, Tony. Stop." She didn't want to imagine waiflike Sara wading through knee-deep human refuse.

He fell silent, toying idly with his fork. Ziva stood at the counter, breathing steadily through her nose as if to stave off nausea. Finally she spoke.

"I sat through the first part of Sara's statement. Metro sent two female detectives from Sex Crimes. Thank God," she snorted bitterly. "She wouldn't ever speak to a man about what happened that day."

"How do you know that, Zi?"

She turned burning eyes on him. "I just do." She returned to staring at her hands. "I sat there with Gibbs and the detectives at the table." She paused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Her voice thickened. "And I listened to a five-year-old describe her own beating and sexual assault."

Tony ached to comfort her. "How was that for you?"

She looked at him, mouth pursed, eyes large and dark and ringed with deep circles.

He pressed on. "A familiar story, huh?

She inhaled sharply and focused on her hands again. "It is not mine, Tony. Sara is an innocent child. I am a trained assassin. I can—I _have_—killed dozens of men. With a gun, a knife, my bare hands. What happened to me in Somalia was a cosmic act of retribution."

Tony nearly swallowed his tongue in shock and rage. He shook his head and reached for her, but she shrank away, dropping her shoulder only slightly. "No. No, Zi. No one deserves to be raped."

She gasped and stepped back. Ziva had never used The R-Word in all the things she'd shared with him about her abduction, captivity, and torture. In his utterance he'd broken whatever invisible wall stood between them, between Ziva and Sara, between her warm Georgetown apartment and the dirt walls of he cell in Somalia. The unsayable had finally been spoken.

"Tony," she whispered, and gaped for a long moment, mouth opening and closing. She was still studying her hands. "I didn't mean...that."

"Yes you did," he corrected softly. He gathered her hands in his and she turned slightly.

"Have you spoken to a professional about this? Because, Zi, I can't help you with this. I can support you, but I can't help you."

Ziva's eyes filled and she pulled her hands out of his to wipe at them. "I saw the suggested therapist but stopped going after the mandated six weeks. I am fine, Tony."

He doubted that; she'd been quick to anger and slow to calm since her return, though her peaks and lows mellowed a little with time. She kept herself together at work—provided a suspect didn't get out of hand—but evenings and weekends were difficult. She exhausted all of her emotional energy in the bullpen and required a lot of down-time to recharge. Many evenings were spent on the couch, staring blankly at the television. She could barely summon the strength to eat or shower.

Her reserves were so taxed that she often snapped at him for ridiculous infractions—not replacing the milk quickly enough after making coffee, washing one of her delicate sweaters with his blue jeans, forgetting to replace the laptop on the desk when he finished his reports. He recognized that it was all about control; she wasn't picking on him, she was just trying to establish herself as part of the world after nearly being erased by Salim and his men.

While she had improved steadily for so long, now he felt like she'd taken a few steps backward. Ziva had nightmares again. She woke every night, shaking and calling out in Arabic. He didn't understand what she was saying, but he didn't need a translator to know she was begging the ghost of Salim to stop hurting her. If Tony stayed the night she could sleep again. If he didn't, she would lay awake until dawn, then take punishingly long runs around the city, sometimes deliberately jogging through unsafe neighborhoods between her apartment and work, clutching her switchblade so tightly it left marks in her palm.

"I don't think so, Zee-vah." He pulled her close and she went, albeit reluctantly. "I think maybe you should give that therapist a call."

She shook her head against his chest so he switched tactics. "Maybe it isn't for you. Maybe it's for us and for Sara." He got no response but she didn't move away. Her shoulders tensed then relaxed. He rubbed circles on her back.

"Ok," she finally acquiesced, face still buried in his chest, needing his strength and power of reason. "I'll call tomorrow."

She pulled away, not meeting his eyes and he wondered if she was lying. "You should finish your dinner. It's getting late."

Tony shook his head. "I'm not hungry anymore."

Ziva shrugged. "Clean up, then," she admonished, and settled on the couch.

He scraped his plate and put it in the dishwasher.

"I talked to Gibbs," she called to him over the clang of silverware. "He's nervous. Apparently Sara is much more fragile than we'd thought."

He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. "How so?"

"He said she had some delays—verbal, physical." She puzzled for a moment, still chewing on her lip. "I knew that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The first time I looked at her I thought she was a baby. "Like she was two. Or three." She grew distant for a moment, then returned to him, tone sharp. "I do not know _why_ I felt that way. I just did."

"She's teeny-tiny," Tony offered. "And she doesn't talk so great, you know?"

"Yes. She will be going to intensive therapy all day, three days a week at HSC."

Tony nodded and sat next to her. ZNN was breaking the story of the dealers they'd busted today with Metro and he watched for a moment, transfixed. His distraction didn't last long.

"Wait! What about the other two days? Will Gibbs find a sitter? Daycare?"

Ziva paused, rubbing her palms over the embroidered pillow she'd pulled into her lap. "He does not believe he will come back," she finally said, quietly.

It was Tony's turn to gape. "What? NCIS is everything to him. I thought _I_ would settle down with a wife and kids long before Gibbs ever did." He blew out a breath of disbelief and leaned back into the cushions. Ziva had turned her whole body towards him, fixing him with a very pointed stare.

"I'm just shocked," he amended feebly. "But I guess he is old enough to retire. He did it once already..."

She maintained her steady gaze. "His priorities have changed," she said, tone clipped, eyes wide and fixed on him.

Tony nodded. "I guess so," he sighed. "Maybe this is a turning point for all of us. A reassignment, of sorts." He pulled her towards him and she spun to lay her head on his shoulder.

Ziva hummed as he twirled one of her curls around his finger. "Maybe it is."

. . . .

"I think you should rinse again. I still see suds." Abby picked up a few strands of Sara's hair and rubbed it between her fingers. Sara, supine on the countertop, neck supported with a rolled tea towel, was wrapped in dry, warm bath sheets. She dozed while Gibbs and Abby washed her hair in the kitchen sink.

"I got it, Abs. The soap is gone."

Abby reached over his arm and turned the water on again. "No, I still see bubbles. Just rinse one more time. Sara doesn't mind."

Sara opened her eyes and rolled them skyward at them. "I don' mind, Gibbs," she agreed amiably.

Abby narrowed her eyes at him. "See?"

Gibbs rinsed again, pouring several plastic cupfuls of warm water over Sara's hair. Wrapping a towel around her head, Abby scooped her up and whisked her up the stairs for pyjamas.

Gibbs watched them go and ran a hand over his face. The afternoon had been draining, the evening stressful. Sara had fallen asleep in the car and woke right before dinner, fretful and out of sorts. He managed to get her to eat a few bites of her meal before she melted down completely, crying, calling herself stupid, begging him not to send her away. She was inconsolable; all he could do was rock her and whisper in her ear until she cried herself out. Gibbs promptly called Abby to help with bath and bedtime, hoping her sunny disposition would bring Sara out of her funk.

It worked. Abby distracted Sara during her sponge bath and pin site cleaning, and she smiled when they wrapped her in soft towels and laid her on the kitchen counter to get her hair washed. Now he could hear them goofing around as Abby helped her into PJs.

Tim appeared before him, clad in running shoes and shorts but not panting or sweating.

"Hey, Boss. Abby here?"

"Yeah. You two have a jog date this evening?"

Tim shook his head. "No, we were just going to hang out but her cell went to voicemail so I figured she was here. You guys eat? I'm starving."

Gibbs pointed to the fridge, where leftover chicken and sides were stored in plastic containers. "Help yourself. I'm putting Sara to bed."

He was two risers up when Tim called out, "Heard you had a rough day."

"Ya think?"

"Abby told me about what the therapists said. I have some articles for you to read when you come back down. Tell Sara I said goodnight."

"Ten-four, McGee," he replied, and took the stairs at a trot.

. . . .

_"I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day_."

Sara inched her left leg against his arm. "S'tech."

He looked up. "What, sweet pea?"

She nudged him again. "S'tetch, please. Pleeeease. Do s'tetch."

He put the book down and went through her stretching routine for the second time that evening, rotating her hips, flexing her knees and ankles, repeating the series with her good arm. He used both palms to put gentle pressure on her calves and forearm, finally feeling the tense muscles relax and the stiffness in her joints fade.

"Better?"

Sara shrugged. "Thanks, Gibbs."

"You're welcome."

He read on about the gum in Alexander's hair and the missing desert in his bagged lunch.

"Him is having bad day," she said solemnly, poking one thin finger at the page.

"Yeah, he is. Are you having a bad day, Sar?"

His answer was a blank stare.

"It's ok if you are. Everyone has them sometimes. And now it's bedtime, so the day is over. Tomorrow will be better."

She continued to stare as he brushed a damp curl off her brow.

"My day was very good," he rambled. "Because you told me you loved me. Even when you were crying I was thinking about that. Because I love you, too, and I want you to be happy and safe. Even if you're cranky or mad."

Sara kept staring, but her furrowed brow meant she'd heard him and was processing.

"You don' throw me away, Gibbs."

He shook his head adamantly. "No, I would never, ever throw you away. Not even on the worst day ever." He leaned down and pressed their foreheads together. Sara's long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.

"Forever, Sar. Ok?"

"Ok," she agreed quietly. "F'effer, Gibbs."

"I promise, sweet pea. Now it's time for sleep. Close your eyes. It'll be morning again soon."

She complied, and he kissed her hair before turning off the light and stepping out, making sure the door didn't close all the way behind him.

. . . .

Tim and Abby were at the dining table, laptops open in front of them.

"What d'ya got, McGee?"

Abby frowned at the use of his signature phrase. If it wasn't for _her_ it wasn't okay.

"I found a series of articles online today. A study is in process at Harvard about the effects of persistent stress on kids in the absence of protective relationships. Children in chronically abusive or unstable homes have wave after wave of stress hormones flooding their brains. It wires them for things like academic setbacks and developmental delays."

Gibbs was nodding, scanning the pages of printed articles he'd been handed.

"Kids in toxic stress situations can grow up to be diagnosed with diabetes, heart disease, obesity, and learning disabilities. They often lag behind their peers, socially, academically, and emotionally. Most grow up to have short tempers and long rap sheets." Tim was about to carry on, but Gibbs tossed the papers down, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"So what do we do?"

Abby wiggled her chair closer to him. "_Hugs, Not Thugs_, Gibbs. Affection, connection. QT like storytime, playtime, and baths all go a long way toward reversing the effects of toxic stress."

Gibbs nodded. "She just asked me to do her stretching routine again. She was really tense. Probably from the cry-fest this afternoon."

"Even the tantrums mean something, Gibbs. She's learning how to ask for things, how to make sure her needs are met, little by little. You're teaching her that and you probably didn't even notice." She jammed her finger in his chest to punctuate her point, then rubbed his arm knowingly. "I told you, Gibbs. You're a good daddy."

He shrugged. "Doin' my best, Abbs."


	20. Independence Day

__**_Ap__ologies for the delay; life-things._**

_I got your back now; _

_you'd better have mine._

_You say, "the coast is clear,"_

_but you say that all the time._

_-Ani DiFranco, "Independence Day."_

Tony and Ziva were supposed to come over for dinner, but Tony called—she could tell by how Gibbs talked—and Gibbs listened for a second before he said _well tell her to rest up and be here by breakfast tomorrow,_ so Sara knew they weren't coming. She tried not to be sad about it, but when Gibbs handed her the phone and said, _say goodnight to Ziva, she's going to sleep early_ all that came out of her mouth were two squeaks. Gibbs wasn't mad, though, he just rubbed her hair and said she was an owler; she had to be brave. Her eyes watered anyway.

But it never was just the two of them. Gibbs spent a long time on the phone and then the front door opened and Abby came in, then Tim. Tim had a big box and he slid it across the floor to the basement steps. There was pizza for the grownups. Sara liked pizza a lot, but the doctor they visited that morning said _no eating red stuff_ and pizza had red on it, so she had plain pasta and cheese instead. Peaches were ok, though, so she ate two whole ones for dessert.

It wasn't even dark when they finished eating, so Tim went outside to mow the lawn. The roar of the mower engine startled her, but Abby took her to the back porch to make sure there was nothing to be afraid of. There wasn't. It was just Tim walking back and forth with the red machine that looked a little like a monster. Not a scary monster, but one you could make go away with a talking-to. Gibbs had taken the big box downstairs and there was the sound of tape tearing and quiet banging. Sara got a little nervous with Gibbs all the way in the basement, so her thumb went to her mouth even though she told it not to.

But Abby had strong, safe arms. She also knew how to clean the pins without tearing the tender skin all around the metal parts and how to scrub her fingers without getting her cast wet. So when Gibbs came back upstairs, his eyebrows went up because he didn't think Abby would give her a bath all alone. But she did. And Gibbs gathered Sara up in his arms like a baby—which she didn't mind at all—and sighed _you smell so nice, sweet pea_ right against her ear. And Sara stayed so still because it was nice to be like that, all warm and soft and sleepy. She even forgot for a minute that Ziva _didn't feel well_ the way that Mommy _didn't feel well_ for a long time before she died alone in her room over the narrow street. Maybe Ziva would be ok, she reckoned. Gibbs was getting the medicines she took before bed and didn't notice her biting her lips and twisting her pyjama shirt in her fingers. Maybe Ziva would be ok because Gibbs' house wasn't yellow and Ziva wasn't upstairs-she was in her own apartment with Tony. Tony could get medicine if she needed it, or Ducky the Doctor, who had a squarish face and a voice like music and always kept her hands where Sara could see them.

And she tried to be brave like Gibbs said, but it got harder when the sun went down, and harder when he was reading a story, and even harder still when he kissed her head and lay his cheek on her brow and whispered that he loved her. She echoed him, feeling funny and vague like she might disappear. She didn't want to disappear in the same way she didn't want Ziva to _not feel well_. Disappearing wasn't like being taken away. Disappearing meant that no one noticed when Sara's stomach hurt and her eyes ached. Or they did notice and they were angry for being bothered. It wasn't like that, being at Gibbs' house. In fact, it wasn't like being a foster kid at all. It was like being a regular kid, almost, except that regular kids didn't ache all over all the time. Regular kids didn't need a wheelchair and a special car seat and being carried all the time. Regular kids took baths in the bathtub, not at the kitchen sink. But also regular kids didn't have Abby to sing songs about sailors and soldiers and a man who rode a dolphin all the way to the sky.

Foster kids didn't have Gibbs, but neither did regular kids. Only Sara had Gibbs. But she forgot that for a minute, in the dark, alone. She forgot that when a million fists appeared in the dark and pummeled her all over, when Mr. Shawn opened the closet door and locked his forearm around her throat, when Mr. Godwin stood on the dresser and shouted at her for her stupidity, for her always-forgetting, for how, instead of yelling _Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs, _what came out of her mouth was _Daddy! Daddy_!

And then the hallway light was on. Gibbs' shadow appeared first in the doorway, and then Gibbs himself, rubbing his head and squinting in the yellow light.

"Sar?" He begged. "What happened, sweet pea?"

She was crying too hard to answer, crying and trying to get away. Wasn't he angry? She was not his regular kid; she had no right to call for him like _that_. Sara had her good arm locked around the safety rail and her metal parts were digging hard into the mattress, which hurt a lot, but not as much as Gibbs' rough hands would hurt if he was mad. Her stupid leg wouldn't listen when she told it to swing over the railing, so she forced it under, squeezing her sore muscles between it and the edge of the mattress until her metal parts hung up and she couldn't work them loose. Gibbs was coming around the end of the bed now and he was yelling in the gloom of the small bedroom, yelling at her for being so horrible even though her own voice was much louder than his in her ears.

He knelt down and cupped Sara's face in his hands, tilting her chin up so they could make eye contact. It was an awkward maneuver; the fat, white, aluminum tube of the bedside safety rail pressed hard between them. But he managed to tug her gaze upward with gentle hands and words and when she finally locked eyes with him he found nothing but despair and self-loathing. Her screams dissolved into sobs, and before he could muster one word of comfort, Sara stopped crying, tensed, and threw up.

. . . .

"You awake?"

Gibbs opened his eyes to find Jackson in front of him, an overnight bag on his shoulder and two shopping bags on the floor next to him, both overflowing with brightly wrapped packages.

"Yeah," he said softly. "But she's not, so go easy." Sara was asleep in his arms, worn out not just from the nightmare, but from the extra bath, the change of pyjamas—and since Gibbs was home alone and didn't want to smell it later—the late-night laundry session. Her stillness gave Jackson an opportunity to give her a good once-over.

"Got her trussed up like a turkey, don't they?" He pondered rhetorically, taking in the sling, the swath, the fixator, the cast on her arm, and the stitches in her head.

"It's all temporary," Gibbs reminded him, but Jackson shrugged.

"Temporary or not, it's hard to look at. Especially on a little baby." Jackson shrugged and gave the two of them a long look, his own expression unreadable. "How are you hanging in?"

Gibbs didn't know to which one of them he was speaking. "I'm all right, Dad. We're busy with doctor appointments and therapy sessions at HSC."

"Therapy? For what?"

Gibbs couldn't deal with the questioning, not here or now, and not after Jackson had been so generous. It took him several days to think about how he was going to tell his father—elderly, judgmental in his own right—about his fostering Sara and the plan to adopt her. He expected jibes about his age, his failed marriages, his workaholism and hermitlike nature, but Jackson had listened for a long time before interrupting him to say _you need her as much as she needs you. Make it good, Leroy_. Then he hung up, confessing that a line of customers had formed out the door.

"Physical therapy, occupational therapy, and talk therapy. She's been through a lot. Still has a long way to go."

Jackson's argumentative edge softened. "That's why she's in your lap at six in the morning, looking like she's been there all night?"

He nodded. "Yeah, Dad."

"I'll make coffee and put my things away. What time is the crew scheduled to land?"

Sara stirred and Gibbs shushed her, hoping she'd sleep for another hour to make up for the terrible night. She baby-sighed against his chest and he waited for her to go back to being dead weight again before speaking.

"Dunno," he replied. "But DiNozzo needs to deal with that blackberry tangle and the picnic table before I'll even thing about firing up the grill. Can you pull those burgers? They'll need the day to thaw."

. . . .

True to her word, Ziva appeared just after eight. Sara gasped, releasing the breath she'd held without knowing it. She smiled the first real smile Gibbs had seen in days and whispered a shy, "Hi, Zeeba."

To Gibbs, Ziva was pale and peaked, but he knew Tony would need heavy artillery to keep her at home. _Literal_ heavy artillery; actual weapons.

"How you doin', Ziver?"

"I am fine, Gibbs," she replied smoothly and tugged Sara into her arms. "Jackson is here, yes?"

"Kitchen," he indicated, bobbing his head toward the banging noises and the suction sound of the freezer door opening and closing. "And be careful. She's going to be sore. We had a bad night before Dad came down."

"And how did the introductions go?" she pressed, eyeing Gibbs thoughtfully and nuzzling her cheek against Sara's brow. Sara was snuggled up again, humming like she did after a bath.

"Fine," he sighed, turning to Sara. "You like him, kiddo?"

She nodded and turned a serious face to Ziva. "Gibbs' Daddy," she informed her, conveying a gravity about the situation that made both adults burst out laughing. She frowned at them.

Ziva shook her head, still giggling. "It's ok, _Shaifeleh_. Jackson is a very nice man and he loves our whole family very much." Ziva touched their noses together. "And you, too. Especially you, too. You are my _shaifeleh_, but you are everyone's sweet little princess. _N'sicha_. _Bat melech_. The king's daughter, yes? Beautiful and gentle and strong and modest."

Not since her mother's death had so many kind words been directed at Sara. She blushed furiously and shook her head but Ziva pressed on.

"Yes, you, little one. You make Gibbs happy. You make him whole. Maybe all of us, too. Maybe you gave us something we didn't know we needed."

"No," Sara started. "Not me. 'M'a _fosserkid_." Tears threatened and Gibbs flashed back to their horrible night, so he stepped in, looping a long arm around both of them.

"No, sweet pea. Not anymore. I went to a lawyer and he's going to make some documents, then we're going to talk to a judge. After that, you won't be a foster kid anymore. You'll just be my kid. Your name can be Sara Gibbs."

She gaped at him for a long time, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, and Ziva hugged her tightly, burrowing her own head against Gibbs' shoulder. Finally Sara found the wherewithal to speak up.

"You be Daddy," she said, and Gibbs wasn't sure if it was a command or a question.

"Yes, I'll be your Daddy. Forever. Not just until Miss Susan comes back."

"You," she directed again, and leaned up to poke one finger against his stubbly chin.

"Me," he countered, lowering his face to hers.

That seemed to do it. "Ok, Gibbs." She screwed up her face for a minute and said softly and slowly, "Ok…Daddy," but pulled back, expecting a rebuke.

Ziva smoothed a hand over her curls and Gibbs pulled them closer, wrapping both arms around the two of them in a big hug.

"Does that mean you're my little girl?"

Sara nodded shyly, the fear of rejection bright in her seawater eyes.

Ziva had to hand Sara back to him. "Excuse me," she said softly. "I need to freshen up."

. . . .

They played all afternoon. After Tony took down the bramble and Tim set up badminton and horseshoes the NCIS team set about to lazing away their holiday weekend. The grill was kept hot all day, and they celebrated in the highest carnivore fashion; beef spare ribs, burgers, jerked chicken, and a haggis donated by Ducky that only Tony and Abby had the courage to try. They declared it delicious but gamey, and a bite offered to Sara garnered them a hilarious face and a warding off gesture.

"No, thank you," she insisted. "It's ghost food."

"She's not wrong," Ducky commended. "Haggis is served at suppers that commemorate the poet Robert Burns. _The groaning trencher there ye fill_" he recited, "_your hurdies like a distant hill…"_

Gibbs cut him off, "I got my own poem, Duck." He glanced around the table, where everyone had fallen silent. Sara cocked her head at him and Abby dropped her fork with a clatter and looked around, sheepish.

"I've decided to retire from NCIS."

Silence reigned as everyone shared glances of disbelief—everyone except for Tony and Ziva. They'd had time to process the news. Abby was aghast, however.

"You're quitting?" She spat. "You're just going to quit?"

Gibbs was unphased by her outburst; he'd known it was coming. "I'm not quitting, Abbs. Vance offered me a very nice retirement package and the opportunity to work as in independent contractor on a series of older cases. I won't be in the field anymore,though. I'll work predominately from home. McGee brought me some equipment and we're going to build a home office in the guest room."

That seemed to appease her. "So you can still bring me a Caf-Pow once in a while? Because no one quite gets the ratio of syrup to carbonation the way you do. And you'd better bring Sar' with you, or I'm going to be _very upset_." She narrowed her eyes at him and pointed the offending fork in his direction.

He smiled. "I give you my word," he said quietly, and Abby came around the table to loop her long arms around his shoulders.

"Yay!" She crowed.

"Yay!" Sara agreed, a little uncertainly.

Tony wiped his mouth with his napkin and brushed his knuckles against Ziva's. "So what did Vance mean by 'older cases'? Cold files? And twenty-years cold or six-months cold, because there's a difference. Oh, and I uh…got promoted. I'm the new head of MCRT."

Gibbs announcement had primed the crowd, so Tony received no awkward silence or questions. Everyone cheered and smiled and offered toasts and he accepted them graciously; no bluster, no ego, no gloating, no ribbing from anyone.

"Proud of you, DiNozzo," Gibbs offered, but he eyed his team sternly. "But if I catch anyone calling him 'Boss,' I'll knock their six down a few notches, no questions asked."

Everyone laughed, Tony included, who countered, "There's only one Boss, Boss. And that's you."

"Yeah, Daddy-Boss," Sara chimed in, and wondered how everyone could laugh and cry at the same time.


	21. Nightingale

__**Hold on to your hats; it's a long one, folks.**

_She'll sing above the blast and the clothing singed by fire._

_She'll sing above the black smoke rising from the funeral pyre._

_-Laura Viers, "Nightingale."_

Gibbs was surprised to wake up in his own bed on Monday morning. There had been no nightmares, no tantrum, no vomiting in the wee hours. The sliver of sky he could see through the blinds was orange and someone was brewing coffee. He threw his legs out of the bed and instantly regretted both rounds of badminton against Abby. He'd won, but barely.

Jackson was downstairs, sipping his second cup of coffee and perusing the morning's paper. He barely glanced up from the sports page when his son appeared.

"The Sox beat Baltimore last night, but that's no surprise. The baby up yet?" He'd taken to calling Sara _the baby_. _Leroy_, he'd ask, _did you give the baby some chicken? Will the baby need a booster seat? Does the baby like salad? Put a sweater on the baby—the sun's going down._

"No," he grunted.

Jackson nodded. "Baltimore plays Pittsburgh tonight. I'll go to the supermarket for steaks and beans. You want anything else?"

Gibbs shook his head, mouth full of coffee. He actually needed a lot of things—most of them for Sara—but he needed to take the lists the nutritionist had provided. He needed to compare labels and ingredients, the nutritional values, the calorie content. While she would—and did—eat most anything, he was careful to provide the food best suited to her needs.

"I'm taking her to HSC at nine. We should be home after lunch. Maybe we should go down to the park for an hour when we get home."

Jackson just nodded and picked up the local section.

. . . .

"Ok, Sara. One more time."

Sara was on her back on a colorful play mat, knees bent. Julie and Adjoa were helping her roll gently from side to side. Gibbs' job was to hand her a soft foam ball each time she faced him, and, when turned away, she was to toss it into a basket. Almost every throw had been a success and Adjoa confided in him that she was pleased with her hand-eye coordination.

Julie decided to up the ante and held out a big round ball.

"Hold on, Sar. Let's put this between your knees and try again. Can you squeeze it?"

"Ok," she complied easily enough, but Julie frowned and put both hands on the outside of Sara's legs.

"Squeeze with both legs, Sar," she instructed.

"Squeezin' it," Sara insisted, but Julie's frown only deepened. Setting the ball aside, she rotated both of Sara's hips in their sockets and straightened her legs, running her hand down her upper legs and over her knees. Anxiety bloomed in Gibbs' chest.

"What's going on?" He demanded. His tone was light but deadly serious.

"There's weakness on Sara's left side. How many hours went by before she was treated?"

His heart sank. Adjoa slid closer to Sara's face and presented her with a hand-held jigsaw puzzle. It was better to keep he busy while the adults talked.

"We can only guess, but the minimum is eight hours."

Julie and Adjoa noticed the collective pronoun and shared a glance that Gibbs couldn't identify.

"You think something is wrong because it took so long to get medical attention?"

Julie shrugged. "It's possible. Dislocated joints can cause permanent disability if not treated promptly. If she went that long it's feasible that she sustained some nerve damage. I'd like to schedule and MRI for tomorrow morning."

"Dr. Levine mentioned that she might need follow-up operations after the fixator is removed."

"And she still could," Adjoa interjected. "If her pelvic ring doesn't close properly it can cause other problems. Right now we're just worried about mobility and sensation on the left side."

Sara solved the puzzle and held it out to Adjoa, then rolled her eyes upwards at Gibbs. She held out her hand to him.

"S'ok, Daddy," she soothed. "S'ok. Doesn't hurt."

Julie left momentarily and returned with a small wooden stick. She poked Sara's left side and leg with it, starting just below the fixator and moving downward.

"Can you feel this? And here? Here?"

Sara nodded each time, only hesitating once when Julie poked a spot just above her kneecap. When Gibbs raised his eyebrows, Julie shrugged him off.

"It's very minor sensation loss. We'll just keep an eye on it. I'm more worried about the weakness on that side. I paged Dr. Levine; he's on his way down."

Julie whisked off to make some notes in the paperwork, and Adjoa put a hand on his arm. "The MRI is painless but they'll sedate her."

Gibbs nodded. "I know what an MRI is," he grunted, "I just feel like every time we see Levine he's telling me she's going to be disabled. She has special needs—I get it. Why are we wasting so much time with bureaucratic nonsense?"

Adjoa shrugged. "I get your frustration. But there are so many layers to this—Sara, you, Julie and me, Dr. Goldman, Dr. Levine, and whatever specialist he calls in to help. Then there are the social workers, MedicAid, and the District. We need to go up the chain of command in order to get her properly treated and the treatments subsidized." She scooped Sara off the mat.

"Here, hold your little girl," she instructed, and shifted her gently into his arms. His frustrations melted away and Sara placed her hand on his cheek, smiling her wry half-smile up at him.

"Daddy," she whispered theatrically. "S'ok."

. . . .

Dr. Levine asked Gibbs to lay Sara on an exam table in the therapy room and drew the curtain closed to give them some privacy. He started by examining the fixator, then rolled her hips inward and outward before flexing her knees and ankles. Placing her left foot in the palm of his hand, he instructed Sara to push. She looked at Gibbs, who nodded.

"Go ahead, Sara," Dr. Levine prodded. "Push against my hand."

"Am pushin'," she countered. Nothing happened.

Dr. Levine went to her right foot, placing his palm against the sole and repeating the instructions. Sara didn't hesitate and sent his hand back against his chest.

"Gibbs said you told him your other leg doesn't hurt. Is that true, Sara?"

She nodded. "S'ok. Doesn't hurt."

"Does it hurt when you tried to push against my hand?"

She shrugged. "Liddle."

"Where?"

She pointed to her left hip and then moved her finger down to about mid-thigh.

"Down here?" Dr. Levine questioned, tracing her path with his own finger. "In a line?"

She nodded and reached for Gibbs' hand.

He looked to Gibbs, too. "The MRI should be able to tell us more. This isn't uncommon given how long it was between injury and treatment. It's fixable."

Gibbs blanched, not believing him. "How?"

"PT," Dr. Levine countered easily. "It works wonders with kids, really. If not, we can take donor nerves from her back and implant them in her leg. The surgery is harder with kids than adults, but the results are better and faster. They're bodies are so much more capable of healing than ours. The MRI will be at GW tomorrow morning. Can you be there by nine? They'll want to sedate her and run contrast, so allow extra time."

. . . .

Ziva clutched her pen hard and tried not to growl. Morales and Nachshon, the Metro PD detectives on Sara's case, had come by to ask for Godwin's files. As he was discharged personnel, the military tribunals were not willing to see his case. Luckily, he could still be prosecuted in civilian courts. Ziva was furious; she'd wanted every chance she could take to make his life hell.

"Ya all right over there, David?" Tony asked, chewing messily on a sandwich. Lunchtime found them both at their desks still. "It's not a big deal. And if they can get him on the Endangerment charges it'll add a year to his sentence."

She swallowed in an attempt to get control of her anger. "I am fine, Tony," she snarled, "I am simply disappointed that I no longer have the opportunity to make Godwin suffer."

He snorted. "Keyman's still available. Want him?"

She bristled. They'd visited Abby this morning about some evidence they found in Hazelbaker's rack, and she'd had lab reports from Sara's SAE kit next to her computer. The semen came back as Keyman's, also a set of fingerprints found with infrared film. She'd already packed up Godwin's evidence kit and sent it via bike messanger to the Southeast Metro precinct. _I don't like this_, she'd said curtly. _But I want him to suffer for what he did to her._

"No," she fired back. "I don't want Keyman. I want another inmate to want him."

Tony stopped chewing and stared. He knew the case was upsettin, but he had no idea that she was capable of wanting such violence revisited upon him.

"Ziva," he said quietly. She wouldn't look at him, but ground the tip of her pen into her desk blotter, knuckles white, face drawn.

"Ziva," he repeated. "Look at me, please."

She dragged her gaze upward, eyes hollow. "I hope he rots, Tony. I hope terrible things happen to him. I hope his sense of safety is degraded more every day."

Tim had been watching the whole exchange with an open mouth, pretending to hack into the DEA database for names and addresses around Godwin's home in Southeast. He shuddered at Ziva's final words and gave himself away. Both Tony and Ziva pinned him with glares.

"I…uh," he stammered. "I'm just going to head out on some errands. I'll be back before my lunch break ends. Take care, you two." He waved feebly and grabbed his piece and car keys.

"See ya, Elf Lord," Tony echoed, still staring as Tim rang for the elevator and disappeared behind it's closing doors. He turned back to Ziva.

"When's your appointment with the therapist?"

She flushed red. "_Tony_. I don't need you to amplify that information. If Vance finds out he'll pull me off the case."

"Maybe he should."

Her ire rallied again and she had to blow out a breath to keep from strangling him. "I need to be on this case, Tony. I cannot think of taking time off right now. I would go mix-crazy."

"Stir crazy," he corrected, and softened his tone. "I just want you to be healthy, Zee-vah." He tore his gaze away from her and studied his computer screen intently. "I just want you to be happy," he amended softly, and added under his breath, "with me."

She stared for a long time, twisting the remains of the ball-point in her fingers.

"I can be happy with you," she called quietly. "But I need to have a purpose. This is it. For now. Please be patient."

He smirked sadly. "Waited this long, haven't I?"

. . . .

Tim got to Gibbs' house before he and Sara returned from HSC. Jackson was out, so he settled in with his find and assembled it quickly. He was about to place the bow on top and leave when the door opened and Gibbs walked in, carrying a sleeping Sara.

"The hell you doin', McGee?"

Tim didn't backpedal or apologize. "I saw how poorly Sara's wheelchair handled in the backyard, so I thought this would be better for uneven terrain."

In front of him was a heavy-duty jogging stroller, the handle already adjusted for Gibbs' height. The front wheel was fixed—perfect for jogging—and the tires were pneumatic and looked like they could handle any off-road terrain Gibbs could find in the tri-state area. He took one look at it and planned a trip to the mountains in western Maryland. Perhaps a weekend hiking getaway would be good for them.

"Well," he mustered gruffly. "Thanks, Tim. This thing must've cost a ton. Where did you find the money for this?"

"A college friend of mine bought it for his son but his wife got pregnant before they could use it. They bought a double of the same model in the spring. He didn't charge me anything—just wanted the storage back."

Sara woke up then, startled when Gibbs fell silent and the rumbling in his chest disappeared.

"Whazzat?" She asked fuzzily, frowning sleepily up at Tim.

"It's so you and I can go for hikes together," Gibbs replied smoothly. "Can you say 'thank you' to Tim?"

"_Than'youTim_," she parroted, dozing again.

"You're welcome, Sara. Here, let's try it out."

Gibbs lowered her into the seat and Tim made adjustments for her size, shortening the straps and the footrest. Sara tugged at the sun shield and found she could pull it down to hide all but her feet.

"Nice," she said from under it, voice muffled by the long visor.

Gibbs smiled. "Got your own little hideout there, huh?"

She didn't respond and a peek through the window flap revealed she'd fallen asleep again.

Tim held out a paper booklet. "Here are the instructions. They'll tell you all about how the accessories work. And here's the bug shield and rain shield." He held out two flat packages. Photos and a diagram on the covers demonstrated how they worked.

"Did it come with a motor?" Gibbs pondered, checking out the storage and cupholders. "Damn thing looks like it should come with at least twelve horses."

"No, but you won't need it. It's remarkably light and comfortable. My buddy says his kids fall asleep in it all the time. They even use it to travel—it folds easily."

Gibbs sat back on his heels and looked at Sara for a long time. "Thanks, McGee. Seriously."

Tim blushed. "It's nothing, Boss. Really. After reading that study from Harvard I just wanted to do something about it. This will just increase your opportunity for bonding time." He checked his watch. "Damn. I gotta go."

"Get back to work," Gibbs growled without malice. Tim waved and was gone.

. . . .

Sara slept away the afternoon and Gibbs puttered with his boat, relying on the baby monitor to tell him when she woke. Another gift from Tim, it allowed him to be in the basement while Sara slept.

The doorbell started him and he cursed aloud when the planer slipped and nearly skinned his left thumb. Tossing it down, he picked up the wireless monitor and jogged up the stairs.

Detectives Morales and Nachshon were at the door, each holding a fat file folder and a cup of coffee. A third one rested in a carrier for him.

"Afternoon, Agent Gibbs." Morales greeted. "We need to speak to Sara; NCIS just relinquished Godwin's case. According to information from Agent David, we have additional charges we can file against him if Sara provides corroborating testimony."

"She's asleep," he challenged and motioned at them with the monitor.

"This is urgent," Nachshon offered the coffee. "The judge wants all charges to be filed ASAP so jury summons can be sent."

His eyebrows went up. "That fast?"

"It's a hot case," Morales professed. "The phones lit up the minute it hit the scanners. Apparently Godwin is pretty infamous around Southeast. Got at least two eyewitness reports of him abusing Sara."

Gibbs shook his head and finally allowed them entrance. Both women nodded their gratitude.

"Have a seat," he waved an arm at the living room. "And I'll get her up. But no promises. We've had a long day; if she's not up to talking then you're out. Additional charges be damned."

Sara was awake when he pushed open the bedroom door, and staring quietly out the window. The top of the elm tree rustled quietly in the breeze. She tore her eyes away and gave him her vague half-smile.

"Polices," she said quietly.

He was puzzled. "Did you hear them downstairs?"

She shook her head. "Them's talking to me sleeping."

"They were talking to you in your sleep?"

She nodded and brushed her hair out of her eyes. He sat her up and re-fastened the swath that protected her shattered collarbone, smoothing the wrinkles out of her slept-in dress.

"Well they're here now and want to talk to you about Mr. Godwin. Are you okay with that?"

Sara's eyes darkened but she nodded resolutely and jutted her chin upward. "Him is in jail," she challenged.

He smiled, unable to help himself and glad the reassurances were settling in. "Yes," he agreed. "He is in jail and he is going to stay there for a long time."

. . . .

A quick stop in the bathroom and they were down the stairs, seated together on the couch.

"So Sara," Morales began, "Did Mr. Godwin ever take you anywhere."

Sara nodded. "Yes."

"Where?"

"Party." Sara pulled a face, indicating that it was not the kind of party a child would be happy to attend.

"Where was this party?"

"A house. S'dark. And bad people on the floor."

"What were those people doing on the floor?"

"Probably dead or sleepin.' Them doing drugs."

Gibbs was impressed with the clarity of Sara's voice and tone. She was working hard to speak clearly, to answer the questions directly.

"Do you know what drugs are, Sara?"

She nodded. "Yeh. Drugs is bad things. You do them and then you go dead. Like all the people at the party. They do drugs and deaded."

"Did Mr. Godwin have drugs, Sara?"

"Yes." She was nodding. "Yes. Him having drugs and putting them for money."

"So he was giving people drugs and they were giving him money?"

"Yes."

"And did he give you any drugs, Sara?"

She nodded and Gibbs just about put his fist through the living room wall

"S'ok, Daddy," she said, and rubbed his arm. The detectives melted under their sharp gazes. Turning back to them, she resumed her answers.

"Him gived me them and I give them to 'nother man and he took needles and he put…" she trailed off, but demonstrated, far too accurately, how a person would shoot narcotics.

"So they put the drugs in their arms, Sara?"

"Yeh."

"Did any of those people hurt you, Sara?"

Sara closed her mouth with an audible click and allowed her gaze to wander the room. Gibbs allowed her to disengage for a moment, then jostled her. "Did they hurt you, sweet pea?"

She turned back to him, eyes wet. "Mad at me."

Detective Nachshon piped up. "Who hurt you, Sara?"

She fidgeted. "They telling Mr. Godwin and he…" She lost focus again and her thumb traced an arc around her mouth. Righting herself, she tucked her hand under her sling and looked at Nachshon. "He taked his belt and hitting."

"So the other people got upset with you and told Mr. Godwin, and he took off his belt and hit you with it?"

"_Yes_." Sara replied testily. "Him was hitting me and then the dead people came and pulled my arms."

Gibbs frowned. "So some of the people held your arms while Godwin hit you?"

"_Yes_," she snapped again. "Pulling my arms. Then I threw up. Like before Papa came."

Nachshon jumped, grabbed the files, and flipped through Sara's SAE photographs, pulling the photos that highlighted the deep bruises below the epidermis—invisible to the naked eye without infrared film. She held them close to her face and scowled.

"I want to get these to the crime lab, have them checked for needle marks. Did any of her blood tests come back positive for narcotics?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Not that I know of. And if I find out she did have drugs in her system and no one told me then I'll have a lot to talk about with the hospital staff and Susan McNamyre."

"The residuals are probably gone by now, but have her checked out anyway. Are you going to the doctor soon?"

"MRI tomorrow morning, but I can have my lab check her tonight."

Morales hemmed, wanting all evidence to be collected by Metro PD agencies. "Agent Gibbs, I'm sure the doctor…"

His eyes hardened. "If there were or are narcotics in her system, _my_ lab will let _yours_ know within twenty-four hours. And then _you_ will be responsible for bringing these people to justice. And that involves a little face-time _with me_. Understood?"

Both detectives nodded mutely.

"Now I promised Sara we would go to the park with her grandfather."

The detectives saw themselves out.

Gibbs and Sara sat together on the couch until Jackson returned from his errands. He took one look at his son's stricken face and dropped his supermarket bags.

"What happened?"

"Metro was just here, getting a statement from Sara. They want a blood sample." He choked up and Jackson crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "Drugs," he managed, checking his fury.

"I'll call Ducky and put this stuff away. Put her in that contraption. We're going to the park before dinner."

Sara lit up, unphased, for now, about what transpired over the course of the interview.

"Park, Daddy?"

"Park, sweet pea. You can swing on the swings while Papa and I talk."

She put a stern hand on his cheek. "You don't let go, Daddy. Ok?"

"Absolutely not, my little bird. If I let go you would fly away."


	22. You're a Big Girl Now

**Thanks for reading on, folks. Big love for making me feel so validated.**

***a few edits. Gracias, Mecha. **

_..._

_Bird on the horizon, sittin' on a fence._

_He's singing his song for me at his own expense._

_-Bob Dylan, "You're a Big Girl Now."_

"Ok, Sara. One more deep breath and we'll be all done. Ready?"

She clutched Gibbs' hand a little tighter and sucked in a lungful of air, wincing at the pull across her belly and broken ribs. The MRI Tech—a big, blond, Klondike-looking fellow named James—counted down from five while the magnets registered the final images, then stepped back into the room and rolled the table out of the tube. The test was easy and he was glad they'd be home in time for lunch.

Sara had been an angel, of course. She took James' instructions perfectly and didn't panic when he laced a few nylon straps across the table to hold her steady—stillness was key during an MRI. She didn't complain when James pierced the back of her hand with a butterfly needle to deliver the contrast. She'd just blinked once and said _ouch_ with no great alarm.

"Great work, Sara," James praised, and handed her a stack of stickers for her efforts. She didn't smile at him, but accepted the offering and whispered a shy _thank you_.

Satisfied, he addressed Gibbs. "Dr. Levine will get the scans by the end of the day. I'm sure he'll give you a call as soon as he gets a read on them. I'd expect to hear from him no later than this time tomorrow."

"Thank you," Gibbs said, and he meant it. His emotions vacillated more in the last weeks than they had since his wife and daughter had died. He'd been furious with Levine and Susan McNamyre yesterday and deeply grateful today for how gentle James had been with Sara. Turning the stroller toward the door, he vowed to try to have an even-er keel. For Sara's sake.

Stepping outside, he was glad that he'd thrown a sweater over her shoulders this morning. A cold front had rolled in off the Atlantic and the day was still warmish, but overcast and windy. It was welcome, though, as the heat had been oppressive until the previous night.

Sara's hand appeared over the edge of the stroller, pointing east of where they stood.

"You want to go for a walk, sweet pea?"

"S'ok?"

"Sure. It's nice to be outside, huh?"

She hummed in agreement and he angled them toward Washington Circle Park.

Two boys pulled tricked on skateboards—the same two boys that had rolled past on their way to school when Sara was still in the hospital. She watched with interest as they kick-flipped and ollied their way back and forth across the slate terrace.

"Like Miles," she offered.

"Miles liked to skateboard?"

She nodded.

"I'll bet it was fun to watch him do tricks like that," he offered.

Sara never spoke of any part of her life "BG"—before Gibbs—unless asked directly by the Metro PD detectives. While he didn't want to bring it up and traumatize her further, he also didn't want her to be ashamed of her own circumstances.

"Him doing that in the street and the cars stop."

He smiled at the brazenness of teenagers and wondered if Sara had, at one point, harbored a little crush on Miles.

"He must be brave."

"Yeah," she said solemnly. "And him's mom yell at him and then we walked to reading time."

"Miles' mom asked him to bring you?"

"Yeah, and she is nice. She put a cold thing _here_."

She spread her fingers over her right eye—the one that had been so badly bruised—indicating that perhaps Miles' mom had treated injuries inflicted by Edward Godwin.

"Maybe we should call Miles and his mom to say thanks for taking care of you."

She hummed again and settled back against the padded backrest. Gibbs pulled his phone.

"Yeah, Abby? I need a phone number."

. . . .

Tony was pacing the floor when Gibbs carried a sleeping Sara into the house.

"Where you been, Boss? I've been waiting for an hour."

"You mind, DiNozzo? She's asleep."

"_Sorry_," he offered sullenly, and crossed his arms. "I'm in deep, Boss. I handed the narco ring case back to Metro because it ran cold on our end, and then Private Hazelbaker's body was found at St. Elizabeth early this morning. Shot twice in the head. Nine-mil."

"He pissed someone off."

"Yeah," Tony spat. "Me. What the hell, Boss? Why does this happen on my first case?"

Gibbs wanted to roll his eyes. "Maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself and figure out why."

DiNozzo threw himself down on the couch and startled Sara. Gibbs shushed her.

"Ducky is doing the autopsy now. God, I've been up all night."

"Not your first all-nighter, Tony. Have a cup of coffee and get back to NCIS. I'm sure someone will have something for you by the time you get there."

Gibbs settled Sara in her recliner and went to the kitchen. Jackson was gone, but two skirt steaks were marinating in lime juice and soy sauce. Dinner was going to be early so he could watch the ballgame without worrying about the grill.

Tony trailed after him.

"Ziva was on photos and she found two grams of coke in the blowout from Hazelbaker's skull. I don't know if the killer tossed it there or if he had it in his hand. Weird place to find it. Abby's processing it now and Tim is out with the temp guy, knocking on doors at Quantico."

"And Ziva?"

Tony stammered. "She…stepped out for lunch."

Gibbs flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and pinned Tony with a knowing glare. "She's seeing a shrink," he demanded

Tony rubbed a hand across his red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah, Boss. She is." He lowered his voice. "This whole thing with Sara is really hard for her. Not that she doesn't love her, of course, but…"

"She cried on scene."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"She cried. Tried to hide it but I saw. I almost did, too. What a mess."

"A mess," Tony agreed quietly. "But look at what we got. I can't imagine if," he let his voice fade and allowed them both to go there, but only for a moment. "If something else had happened," he finally wheedled, and Gibbs nodded.

"I love that kid," Gibbs rasped. "I didn't know I could, but I do. I'm crazy about her. And I'm afraid for her, too."

Tony didn't get the chance to ask why; his phone chirped. A text message revealed that Ducky wanted to see him STAT. Patting his hair back into place, Tony paused for a moment by the front door, studied Sara for a moment, then placed a tender kiss on her head.

"We got you, Little Bird," he whispered, and left.

. . . .

Ducky was just peeling off his bloody apron when Tony arrived. Stripping off his cap, he sidled up to his desk and handed him a report.

"I know this may come as no surprise, but Hazelbaker died of a gunshot wound to the head. Not self-inflicted. The bullet trajectory indicated that someone was standing in front of and to the left of him."

Ducky pulled back and extended his arm, index finger pointed.

"Six to eight meters, muzzle to skull. I assume the shooter was waiting for him. There was also a boot print on his abdomen—very faint, might I add—that means someone, at some point, had him pinned on the ground."

"Same guy?"

Ducky shrugged. "I gave the photos and measurements to Abby. She's also running some blood and soil samples. We shall see, my boy. Is Ziva quite all right, Anthony?"

"Is this a conspiracy? Gibbs asked me the same thing an hour ago. I don't know, but until I hear otherwise I'm going to assume that she's fine."

Ducky nodded knowingly. "Sara's circumstances have her upset, don't they?"

"Yes," Tony said testily. "They do. But that's her business until she makes it ours."

"No need to be so harsh, Anthony. I know you're merely protecting her. And after what she survived in Somalia I would expect that someone should."

"You know she's never told me about what actually happened to her? Anything I know is either because of her nightmares or because I've almost bullied her into talking."

"I performed the exam when she got back here. Abby had to drag her down." He paused for a long moment. "Had she gone to a hospital she would've been admitted for a week. Perhaps ten days."

Tony whistled between his teeth. "Seriously?"

"As a coronary. Burns, bruises, contusions, broken bones, soft tissue damage, broken and missing teeth. I could write you a novel about what I had to treat."

He went to a file cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and reached far past the hanging files. Producing a green folder, he handed it to Tony.

"I will not give you the formal report, but I can give you this."

"Will she be pissed at either of us for this?"

"I told her that someone else would see it when the time came, but I didn't tell her who or why. She signed the agreement."

"Well if she busts my stones for this then she'll bust yours, too. Thanks, Duck. I'm going to see Abby."

"Tell her I said hello, Anthony. And take good care of Ziva."

. . . .

Abby hadn't finished the tests yet, so Tony made his way back to the bullpen and the folder carelessly on his desk. Ziva, returned from her appointment and seated stiffly at her desk, noticed it right away.

"Why do you have that?" She asked mildly.

"Ducky said we should read it together," he fibbed gently. "How was your session?"

"Fine," she quipped and closed the conversation. "Do you have the autopsy report?"

"No surprises," he apologized, and handed her the other folder. "Waiting for toxicology. You think it'll put Godwin back on our map?"

"I would love nothing better," she purred dangerously, and tapped away on her keyboard.

Tim strode off the elevator carrying two Metro PD reports. "The search units picked up a guy whose shirt matched what I found in the fence. They're booking him on Possession and Evasion charges and bringing him down tomorrow morning. Any news from Abby?"

Tony shook his head. "None yet. Where was this guy picked up?"

Tim consulted the file. "Eleven Fifty-One Ninth Street Southeast."

Ziva's jaw dropped. "That's Godwin's address. That's where we found Sara. I mean, she was out back. By the trashcans." She'd taken on a faraway look, eyes fixed in the air somewhere above the plasma.

"Get a warrant," Tony commanded with a bluster he didn't feel. "And search that house. Pull the owner in for questioning."

"Something Marion," Ziva interjected. "She works at the Ironstone Bank in Dupont Circle."

"On it," Tim declared, dropping the files on his desk and heading, once again, for the elevator.

. . . .

Ziva crept in the front door just as Jackson stepped out to put the steaks on the grill. She set a bowl of cucumber salad on the counter and poured herself some seltzer before sitting down at the table next to Sara.

"Hello _shaifeleh_. How are the potatoes this evening?"

Gibbs had mashed together potatoes, sour cream, and cheddar cheese. Starchy and easy on her stomach, the nutritionist said to add the most fattening ingredients he could find; Sara wasn't gaining weight fast enough to keep Dr. Levine satisfied.

"Good," she answered succinctly, and daintily scooped up another bite.

"I suppose your MRI went well?"

Sara made a face. "Long tube," she said, and shook her head.

"I did not like that, either, _shaifeleh_. Too closed in for me."

Gibbs came in and laid a hand on each of their shoulders . "I just spoke to the doctor; she does have some nerve damage but he's hopeful that it can repair itself with the right physical therapy."

"She will be fine," Ziva assured him.

Sara yawned and laid her fork down. "Please be done, Daddy?"

Gibbs looked over her plate skeptically. "I don't think so, sweet pea. You barely ate any chicken. Take two more bites of chicken and two more of potatoes."

She ducked her head. "Please done, Daddy."

He raised his eyebrows; she had never questioned him before and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "Sara," he prodded gently. "You need to get stronger so you can play at school with Julie and Adjoa. How are you going to do that if you don't eat?"

She stared for a moment, seawater eyes roaming his face for the right response, then jabbed her fork resentfully in a chunk of grilled chicken. "Ok," she grumbled, and chewed like she was eating gravel.

Ziva pursed her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh. "She is going to bring you to your knees," she muttered.

"Too late," he huffed.

Abby banged through the front door with two canvas grocery sacks.

"Hi, everyone! Oh hey, cheesy potatoes! Good work, Daddy-o." She laid the bags on the counter and twirled back to the table. "Anyone want Cajun-style stuffed banana peppers? My CSA box just came in and the nuns grew the peppers this year."

"Sounds great, Abbs. Would you mind giving this one a bath first?"

Abby bounced on her toes. "I'd love to, but I need to mix the Andouille sausage first." She glanced so fast between the clock, the table, and the bags that her pigtails threatened to take an eye out.

"I'll give Sara a bath," Ziva volunteered. "Ready, _n'sicha_?"

Sara laid her fork down. "Done this time, Daddy?"

"Yeah, sweet pea. Go now with Ziver and get a bath. And after your bath you can pick three stories."

Ziva and Sara disappeared up the stairs.

Gibbs wheeled on Abby. "Where are my test results? Why didn't you call earlier?"

"I did!" She defended, hands raised in surrender. "Your phone went straight to voicemail. Didn't you get the message?"

He tore his cell out of his pocket and found that he hadn't switched it back on after Sara's MRI. Sheepishly, he showed it to her. "Guess not. And?"

"Negative, negative, and negative. No narcotics, no cannabis, no nothing. Just antibiotics and a trace of Tramadol. You cut back on her pain medication?"

"Yeah. Made her too drowsy. She slept all the time."

"Maybe she should be sleeping all the time. She got hurt bad, Gibbs. Wouldn't you be sleeping all the time?"

"No," he groused, and she smiled. "Not _you _as in _you_, Daddy-o. _You_ as in an adult. She's only a tiny thing."

"And not growing fast enough. The doctors want me to feed her more fat and starch. She already lives on potatoes and cheese. What else can I give her?"

"Maybe you should have Tony cook for her once in a while."

He shook his head. "He eats more Bolognese than any human is meant to. She can't have tomatoes, oranges, stuff like that. Too acidic. No pizza, no spaghetti, no cranberry juice. I was going to make…"

"Gibbs!" Ziva called from upstairs. "You need to come up here."

He stormed up the stairs with Abby hot on his heels. Sara was undressed down to her underwear and sitting on the vanity, Ziva standing before her with a washcloth in her hand. Under the bright lights, the same ones Gibbs cursed with every hangover, he could see that she was covered, head to toe, in hives.

He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "Abby, call Duck. Ask him to come by and make sure there's enough food."

"Sara, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

Her chin dropped and she rested the top of her head against Ziva's chest. "Please not mad," she faltered, turning just enough to be able to see him.

"I'm not mad, sweet pea. I just want you to tell me when you feel bad."

Ziva handed him the digital thermometer and he took her temperature.

"One-oh-one," he read. "Not too high, but I want Ducky anyway."

Ziva nodded and ran the washcloth down Sara's red, puffy arm.

. . . .

Everyone had eaten by the time Ducky arrived. Tony and Tim and rolled in late, ate with abandon, then collapsed in front of the baseball game. Abby was doling stuffed banana peppers into freezer bags. And Sara was cuddled on Ziva's lap in the rocking chair, thumbing through _The Snowy Day_.

"Are you poorly, principessa?"

Sara barely registered his question. Peter's footprints were fascinating.

"Let's have a look."

He examined her ears, mouth, throat, neck, and chest, then her eyes when he managed to pull her gaze away from the book. Pressing once more on a particularly violent-looking welt on her shoulder, he gave his diagnosis.

"Urticaria with angioedema. Antihistamines and acetaminophen will help with the symptoms."

"In English, Duck."

"Jethro, she is having an allergic reaction to the dye the MRI technician gave her this morning. It's a very common allergy; most likely she's allergic to shellfish, too."

"Can we make this better now?"

"Certainly. Jackson is getting what you need from the pharmacy. Follow the directions on the packages and if she's not better in forty-eight hours, call her primary care physician. If she starts to wheeze or turn blue take her to the ER."

By that point, Sara was used to doctors talking to Gibbs over her head. She returned to her book without pretense, leaning back in Ziva's lap and popping her thumb in her mouth. Jackson returned bearing medication.

"Not yet, principessa. Let's take these first." Ducky teased her thumb out of her mouth and administered the fever reducer and antihistamine.

"That's going to knock her out," he warned.

"Bedtime is here," Gibbs announced, and scooped her up, headed for the stairs.

Sara began to howl. "No! Not yet! M'not tired! Daddy, please!" She arched her back and Gibbs nearly dropped her. Regaining his grip, he sat her gently on the couch and crouched so they could be eye-to-eye.

"Sara," he said softly. "It is bedtime. I'm not negotiating. We're going to read a story and you're going to sleep."

Her hand flew up over her face. He tucked it between his own and she flinched. "I'm not angry and I would never hurt you. But when I say 'bedtime' I mean it. Now let's go."

Together they went up the stairs and into her room, where Ziva had already pulled back the covers and laid Sara's bunny on the pillow. Gibbs read two stories quickly—her eyes were already at half-mast, and switched on the night-light. Leaning down for one more kiss, she put a gentle hand on his cheek and spoke softly.

"You don' throw me away, Daddy."

"No, sweet pea. Never. I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered and went out for the count.

Ziva met him in the hallway and he motioned her into the guest room. She sat on the bed and he leaned against the highboy dresser.

"DiNozzo says you're having a hard time."

Her features hardened. "Everything is fine, Gibbs. You should not be concerned."

"Don't be angry at him. Or me," he soothed softly. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

A long silence stretched between them. Dishes clanked in the sink downstairs. Abby quietly ordered McGee to finish his meat. Jackson and DiNozzo exchanged comments about the ump's bad call.

"I just want to make it better, Gibbs. I can't take away her suffering but I can show her that she can have a normal life with people who love her."

"Who are we talking about here, Ziver? Her? Or you?"

Silence again. The dishwasher ground to life. Jackson rustled the evening paper. Crickets took up their chorus. Ziva's eyes grew larger and darker as the light waned.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I do not know."


	23. Time Will Do the Talking

**Gird up your loins. Tough stuff and Tony/Ziva ahead. **

_I changed the locks on the door,_

_learned how to take a little more._

_I can outrun all of the devils here, _

_but never the doubt._

_-Patty Griffin, "Time Will Do the Talking."_

"Sara, can we talk about your mom?"

Sara looked up from the puzzle she was building, glancing first at Gibbs then to Dr. Goldman.

"No," she replied flatly.

Dr. Goldman leaned forward. "Why not?"

She pushed the puzzle away, sliding it to the edge of the table and then off. It tumbled to the floor below, pieces scattering from the frame. She stared daringly up at Dr. Goldman. "My mom is dead," she blurted.

"The way you threw that toy on the floor tells me that you're angry about that," Dr. Goldman prodded. When Sara didn't respond, she pushed further. "Are you angry, Sara?"

"No," she mumbled and began to cry.

Gibbs moved toward her but Dr. Goldman waved him off and lowered her voice. "Are you sad?"

Sara nodded, playing with the hem of her shirtdress.

"Can you tell me about how sad you are?"

"Jus'…" she faded. "Jus' all the way."

Dr. Goldman wasn't troubled in the least by her vague response. "All the way sad? Is that a very, very sad feeling?"

Sara nodded again. "S'in my eyes."

"So they water when you think about her? You miss her a lot, huh?"

"Miss her," she agreed.

"So what do you do when you miss her? Do you talk to Gibbs about it? Or your bunny?"

Gibbs passed it over and she tucked it inside her sling.

Dr. Goldman had to ask the question again. "Who do you talk to when you miss your mom, Sara?"

She shrugged.

"You don't talk about it? Why not?"

Silence. Not a blink.

"Has anyone ever gotten angry at you for talking about your mom?"

Sara reddened from the roots of her hair to the collar of her dress and began to wring her hand, tightening the hem around her wrist so that it left a mark.

"What happened then, Sar?"

"Him was mad at me."

"Who?"

"Mr. Wolcott."

"And what did he do when he got angry?"

"Took off him's belt."

"And what did he do after he took off his belt?"

"Popped it on me."

"Does that mean he hit you with it?"

"Yes," Sara replied softly, and looked away. "Everyone saw."

"There were other people watching him hit you?"

"All the kids watching. And him's yelling and then I had to go in the closet. By the steps. S'dark in there."

"How did that make you feel?"

"_Bad!" _Sara exploded. "It felt _bad_ in there. And shamed."

Dr. Goldman was still not surprised by her reaction. "Does talking about this make you angry?"

"Yes," she snapped, and sagged in her chair, deflated, defeated. She craned her neck to look at Gibbs. "You mad, Daddy? You mad at me?"

He looked to Dr. Goldman for permission to intervene and she nodded urgently. "No, sweet pea. I'm not mad at you. I would never be mad at your for talking about your mom. Or what happened in foster care."

He stepped alongside the chair and she leaned her head against his leg, sniffling. He rubbed her head, stroked her cheek, murmuring comforting things. Finally she pulled away and looked at Dr. Goldman with the same daring look.

"C'n I play now?" She challenged, then corrected herself quickly. "Please?"

"Almost," Dr. Goldman assuaged. "I want to talk a little bit more first. You're doing such a great job today. I'm proud of you and I'm sure Gibbs is, too."

"You bet," he said quietly, and smiled.

"So did that man hit you a lot with his belt?"

Sara laid her head back against Gibbs' leg. "All the days," she whispered. "'Cause I'm bad."

Dr. Goldman bristled. "Sara you are not bad; what that man did to you was wrong. A grown up person is not supposed to hit kids—not with their hands and not with belts. Does Gibbs ever hit you?" His eyebrows flew up, but the doctor pressed on. "Sara, would Gibbs ever hit you?"

Sara screwed up her face and looked at Gibbs questioningly.

"No," he replied tersely. "I would never hit you, sweet pea. Never."

"Sara," Dr. Goldman commanded. "Please look at me and tell me if you think Gibbs would ever hit you."

Sara turned so fast the tendons in her neck creaked. "No," she said softly. "No hitting."

Dr. Goldman smiled. "That's right. Gibbs has never hit you and he never would. Now can you tell me why you think you're a bad kid?"

Sara raised her good arm in a gesture that meant she needed to be held. Gibbs obliged.

"M'stupid," she said quietly. "Ev—everyone says."

Gibbs tightened his grip and Dr. Goldman gave him a _stand down_ look.

"Who is everyone?" She asked.

"All the grown ups. They say _stupid_ all the time."

Dr. Goldman deliberately evened her tone and lowered her voice. "You are not stupid, Sara."

It was too late; Sara had shut down. She curled herself smaller in Gibbs' arms and put her thumb in her mouth. He rocked her gently, whispering nonsense into her hair. The doctor addressed him directly for only the second time since they'd walked in. "We're going to end here. This conversation is far from over. I'll page Julie and Adjoa to come get her so you and I will talk."

He nodded and rubbed his chin on the top of Sara's head. She'd taken on her vacant look again—eyes wide, fixed somewhere over his right shoulder. Out the window, he suspected, where rain had been falling intermittently all day.

. . . .

"I admire the restraint you demonstrated today. Thank you. We had a very productive session. How are things going at home?"

"Fine," he answered gruffly. He didn't like being alone with the shrink; he felt cornered and irritated.

"How are her nightmares?"

"Ok, I guess. Hasn't woken me up in two nights."

Dr. Goldman lit up. "She slept through two in a row?"

"I don't know about that, but there was no screaming."

"So she's growing more confident."

He thought for a minute. "Yeah, I guess so. Two nights ago—the night she had that reaction to the MRI dye—she defied me openly. Twice. She was sorry afterward, but I guess it didn't stop her."

"Really?" Her face, oddly enough, registered pure delight. "That's fantastic."

He was aghast. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that she's not afraid of you, Gibbs. She understands on some level that you love her and would never hurt her."

He warmed and sat back in his chair. "I was going to put her to bed and she resisted. Nearly threw herself on the floor. I got worried—thought something was really wrong."

"So she was feverish, itchy and over-tired. And she resisted going to sleep," she deadpanned.

"Yeah."

She smirked. "What part of that sounds atypical to a sick three-and-a-half year old, Agent Gibbs?"

. . . .

Ziva let herself into the apartment two hours late and Tony nearly leaped over the couch to greet her.

"Did you go for another session? Or to the gym? Where have you been?"

She startled, keys jingling, and froze in the entryway. He registered her shock and calmed himself. When he spoke again his tone was almost apologetic. "I read the informal report Ducky gave me. I wanted to talk about it with you."

Ziva continued to stare at him, eyes wide and red.

"Are you upset with me?" He ventured. "Because you knew that someone else was going to read it someday. Ducky told you that."

Ziva coughed once and spat two bloody wads of gauze into her cupped hand.

"What the hell?" Tony stammered. "Who hurt you?"

"Is nothin'" she slurred, still numb. "My tooth broke."

"A real one or an implant?"

She blinked. "Real. Why is bloody."

"What did the oral surgeon say?"

"Get a tem'orary crown. It needs two weeks to heal and then I can get the permanent one. Ag'in." She rolled her eyes. "Puttin' kid through college."

"Sure you are. Want me to get you a milkshake? I can't imagine how you could eat right now."

"No, than' you. Lidocaine made me nauseous." She toed off her shoes, crumpled on the couch, and rubbed at her temples. "An' headache."

Tony dimmed the lights and sat with her, pulling her legs across his lap and rolling her pant legs up to the knee. He rubbed the ball of his thumb down her shin and over a cluster of thin, white scars.

"That report Ducky gave me was short, but helpful. I learned a great deal about the things you wouldn't tell me." He paused for a moment, studying her puffy cheeks. "Are you upset with me for reading it?"

She shook her head, eyeing him warily. "No. I knew it would be shared someday. I guess this was the day."

"These scars are from picana," he informed her. "They adapted a picana from a cattle prod. Did you know that?"

"No," she said, and closed her eyes again. "Tony, please."

"Don't do that," he commanded softly. "Stay with me, ok?"

"I felt like my brain was being scrambled," she slurred, eyes still shut.

"And this," he pointed to two bony protrusions on her instep. "Is from falanga. What did they use? A rod? A cane?"

Ziva swallowed thickly and winced. "Camel whip. Two of them had been camel jockeys. That was how their families paid for madrassa."

He puzzled at her. "And here I thought that was just an ethnic slur."

She drew her forearm over her eyes. "I am tired, Tony. And sore. Please leave me alone."

"I can't," he apologized. "Not after reading that, Zi."

She sat up a little. "Why do you care, Tony? I assaulted you. Stuffed a gun in your face. And you were all ready hurt and had lied to protect me. How could you possibly feel for me?"

"You didn't deserve to be tortured."

"I made a choice and that doesn't warrant anyone's sympathy."

"What about your father sending you on a suicide mission? Does that warrant sympathy?"

Ziva's eyes welled and she sat up and pulled her legs from Tony's lap. "Show yourself out," she snapped. "I need to go to bed. I will see you at work."

She stumbled to the bedroom and slammed the door. Tony sighed and dragged a hand over his face, feeling stupid. But to his surprise, she hadn't locked the door; it swung open easily. The bathroom light was on but Ziva was a mere lump under the covers.

"I'm gonna go. Ok? I'll see you at work." Surprisingly, she mumbled a thick _I'm sorry_, but didn't move. He suspected that she hadn't actually wanted him to leave.

"Zi, it's ok," he came around to the side of the bed and crouched so they could make eye contact. "But help me out, ok? Make me a deal?"

"Hm?" Only her eyes were visible. She had cocooned herself completely under the duvet.

"Don't run away anymore. If you're angry at me, or upset, or just want me to shut the hell up, then tell me so."

"I'll try," she fumbled. He sat down next to her and they shared a long look at the rainy evening; the streetlights had just come on and the sky was a deep shade of slate. It was almost beautiful in their shared melancholy.

"Dr. Mallot said that I've had a relapse of PTSD," Ziva finally said. "She said finding Sara was a 'trauma' and I need to work on dealing with how my life has changed."

Tony put his hand on her back and rubbed absent circles between her shoulders. "Are you going to do that?"

"Yes, I will. She also said that I needed to work on what happened in Africa. She said that it…skewered how I see the world."

Tony smiled. "Why do I doubt she used the word _skewered_?"

Ziva harrumphed and sniffled, but he sensed she was smiling under her blankets. "She also said that I need to 'cultivate' my social support network."

Tony held his hand in front of her face and ticked names off on his fingers. "Me. Abby. Elf Lord. Ducky. Gibbs."

"Not Gibbs," she corrected. "He's taking care of Sara."

"So? There's only room in his heart for one of you?"

Her mouth snapped shut with an audible _pop_ and she cursed her aching jaw. "I am an adult, Tony. I do not require what Sara does."

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But you need to let yourself go sometimes. You go out into the world—at work, at Gibbs', even with me—and pretend that you're not affected by what you've been through. But I know better. Let me carry you for a bit. We'll both be stronger for it."

The sky was black, the room backlit by the vanity lights. Ziva shifted a bit and he lay down next to her, cupping his hip with his hand. She sniffed once, crying again.

"It's ok, Ziva," Tony soothed. "It's ok. I'm here. You're safe. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the warmth of his palm; how she could imagine it over her heart, her eyes, the hollow place deep in her gut. She took a deep breath and succumbed to the pull of sleep.

. . . .

Sara had gone down an hour ago, fighting sleep after two picture books and two of Jackson's fairy tales. He'd hugged and kissed her goodbye, and she peppered him with questions: did he live _very _far away? Was there anyone at home to miss him? What did he sell in his store? He would be coming back, right? He'd answered patiently, lovingly, and afterward warned his son that they were to visit Stillwater for Thanksgiving _or else_. There were no limits placed on the number of guests he could bring, as long as there were enough stuffing and sides for all of them.

"Nice having you here, Dad," Gibbs offered quietly, and peeled the store label from a new sanding block.

"Nice being here, son," Jackson responded casually, "Hope the baby likes the stuff I got her."

Jackson had hand-carved a play set for Sara—a barn and matching farm animals. More keepsakes than actual toys, Sara carefully rearranged the animals each morning and chastised anyone who came too close. She was deeply possessive of it in a way that she never was with her puzzles or books.

"She loves it," Gibbs assured him, but what he was really saying was _she loves you_.

"Well, I'd better head out, Leroy, if I want to get home by midnight. Take care."

He slapped his son on the back and left, passing Tony on the way out.

"Hey, Boss," he offered, but didn't smile. "Sarie sleeping?"

"Ya think?" Gibbs asked, and it meant _and she'll be staying that way_.

"Just thought I'd stop by, hang out for a minute. Been a long time since we just kicked back. You, me, the boat."

Gibbs led him down to the basement, where the boat hulked under the single hanging fluorescent bulb. Dumping a handful of split washers onto the workbench, he poured them each a finger of bourbon and handed over one of the jars.

"How's Ziva?" he asked, and tossed his back. Tony did the same.

"She's…ok. Therapist said she had a PTSD relapse. Said she needs to deal with how things have changed since we got Sara."

Gibbs doubted Tony noticed the plural pronoun but he was partially right. His team treated Sara as if she simply belonged with them; a tiny little agent, fearless and motherless as the rest of them.

"Where's David now?"

"Home. Asleep. Been a difficult few weeks for her."

Gibbs grunted and pushed the split washers into a neat pile. "I think she's on thin ice," he warned and paused for dramatic effect, turning to face Tony fully. "In fact, I think you're both on thin ice and skating badly."

Tony felt his face go hot. "What do you mean, Boss?"

"I know, DiNozzo. _I know_. But you had better keep it off Vance's radar or you'll be split up and restationed in Eastern Kazakhstan. Fly low or pay the price."

Tony bobbed his head. "Roger that. How did you know?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes and handed him a socket wrench. "You'll find out when you have kids. Now either help me with the ballast mount or get home to your girl."


	24. Guided By Wire

_Gravity won't get you through the mazes._

_You can never travel back the way you've come._

_-Neko Case, "Guided By Wire."_

"Daddy?"

Gibbs rolled over and reached past the edge of the bed, then recoiled when his arm met air. Wasn't Sara standing at the edge of the bed?

"Daddy?"

A green light blinked on the nightstand. No, Sara was in her own bed, calling him through the monitor. He pulled on a shirt and stumbled across the hall.

"Sar? Ya ok?"

"Headache," she sniffed, and reached for him.

Gibbs almost gasped when she made contact; her pyjama top was dry, but her skin was hot—burning really—to the touch. He peeled the blankets back and lifted her into his arms. She spasmed.

"Down, Daddy. Please," she begged.

Panic welled in his chest and he tamped it down. "What hurts, sweet pea?" He turned her back and forth in his arms, trying to find a source of injury. "Did you bump something?"

Sara began to cry. "Jus' hurts, Daddy. Down, _please_."

He shifted her closer. "Let's go downstairs. You can go to your chair and I'll take your temperature."

She relented but cried harder. His heart broke a little bit for her, but he set his jaw and took the stairs slowly, carefully.

Once settled, she relaxed a little. Her cries turned into sniffles and she wiped her face on her sleeve. A temperature check revealed a fever of a hundred and four. Gibbs' heart hammered in his chest and his fingers dialed Ducky without looking.

"Jethro?"

"She's running a one-oh-four temp. ER?"

Ducky was suddenly wide awake. "Yes. Immediately. Take her back to George Washington because they'll have her records on file. I'll meet you there."

Gibbs hung up without saying goodbye and stormed up the stairs, where he dressed and grabbed his wallet in less than a minute. Another thirty seconds had him scooping Sara into his arms, buckling her in, and peeling out down the block.

. . . .

Dr. Levine met him at the triage desk. "What's happening?"

"High fever, chills, and a lot of pain. She doesn't want to be held."

"Any coughing or wheezing?"

Gibbs shook his head.

Dr. Levine checked her incisions and fixator pin sites while a nurse fitted an oxygen mask over Sara's face and started an IV. Blood was drawn. Panels were ordered. Ducky and the pediatrician consulted in doctor-speak while Gibbs helped a nursing assistant peel Sara out of her pyjamas. Sara moaned once, softly, but otherwise laid listless during the examination. Dr. Levine left in a rush, and an eerie calm settled over the room.

"Dr. Levine believes Sara may be septic," Ducky translated. "She's certainly presenting that way. The lab will run the blood cultures and get back to us straight away."

Gibbs shook his head. "How does this happen? What did I do wrong?"

"Probably nothing." Ducky replied. "With no spleen, Sara has a compromised immune system. Post-splenectomy infection is very common, unfortunately."

"How serious?"

"With no delay in treatment, sepsis has a survival rate of sixty percent. You got her here as quickly as you could, and they've already begun antibiotic therapy. If we're careful, she can overcome this."

Gibbs mouth went dry and a low hum started in his ears. _Sixty percent survival rate. Just over half, really. I could lose her. Right here, right now_.

Sara sensed his fear and opened her eyes, bright and vacant with fever.

"S'ok, Daddy." She coughed and closed her eyes, dizzy.

"I know, baby," he croaked, unable to hide his fear. Tears welled and his shoulders shook just a little. Ducky put a hand on his back.

"You musn't despair, Jethro. You got her here quickly and treatment is underway. She's receiving the best possible care."

The ER nurse yanked the curtain aside and entered the cubicle. The first rays of sunlight swept in, and Ducky gathered himself to leave.

"I need to finalize the report for Private Hazelbaker's autopsy. Please keep me up to date on her progress. Remember; she has some of the best doctors in the country on her case."

Gibbs nodded and pulled Sara's hand between his own, mindful of the IV port. The sun was brilliant orange and reflected off the polished tile floor.

"Perhaps this beautiful morning is a sign, Jethro," Ducky sighed, and left.

Dr. Levine returned, breathless. "She's septic, but it's mild. We're running a powerful antibiotic and steroids. We're admitting her now; she'll be taken upstairs in a few minutes." He ran a hand through his hair and put his hands on his hips like a post-marathon racer. "We'll knock her fever down and play the waiting game from here on out. She'll tell us when she feels better."

Gibbs grimaced, thanked the doctor, and turned back to Sara's pale face. He couldn't maintain his stoic demeanor anymore.

"You gotta pull through this. Ok, sweet pea? You hang on with all your might. Daddy will make sure the doctors do everything they can for you."

Sara propped one eye open and gazed at him for a long time before speaking from under the oxygen mask.

"You don' let go, Daddy," she rasped. "Ok? You don' let go."

Gibbs kissed her head and tightened his grip on her hot little hand.

. . . .

Abby clomped off the elevator to find Gibbs sitting in an empty surgical waiting room.

"Gibbs," she wailed. "What happened?"

His head jerked up from where it had fallen against the wall. "Surgery to drain an abcess under her incision. Apparently they left a piece of stitching in there and it got infected. The infection got into her blood, and she went septic."

"_Sepsis?_ She could die from that!" Abby snapped, and Gibbs stood to take her in his arms.

"Dr. Levine thinks she's going to be ok. She needs antibiotics and steroids, but I got her here as soon as I could and everyone thinks she'll be fine. Even Ducky."

She sniffed and pulled away, swiping at the mascara tracks that ran down her cheeks. "I couldn't even compute, Gibbs. I couldn't think about losing her."

Gibbs choked up again. "Me, either," he ground out, and sat down heavily. "What's going on with the case?"

She curled up next to him. "Metro brought Godwin in for questioning. He lawyered up, apparently, and won't say anything."

"And?" He prompted.

"And Ziva may or may not have punched his lights out."

Ziva had been clinging to reality by a thin thread lately, and he wasn't at all surprised by the blowup.

"How long she suspended for?"

Abby sighed. "At least a month. She needs a psych eval. Vance took her badge and gun."

Gibbs shrugged; she had plenty more at home. "What pissed her off?"

She gave him a doleful look. "Godwin accused Ziva of getting him thrown in jail. He said she was a bitch, among other colorful things, and said he should've killed Sara when he had the chance."

The fear Gibbs had been swallowing since three in the morning blossomed into rage.

"That rotten fu—"

"Gibbs!" Abby fretted. "Calm down. The doctor is back."

Sure enough, Dr. Levine was striding towards them, a small smile playing across his face.

"Agent Gibbs, the operation was successful; we drained the infection and closed her up. Would you like to help us bring her around from the anaesthesia?"

He followed the doctor down a narrow hallway, past the OR doors, and into a small cubicle. Sara was still sedated.

"Talk to her. Make her come around," Dr. Levine instructed. "It'll be good for her to hear a familiar voice."

Gibbs stroked her too-warm cheek. "Hey, sweet pea. Wanna wake up for Daddy?"

She tossed her head a little and frowned.

"C'mon," he prodded. "Open up and look at me. I want to see your beautiful eyes."

She complied, moans muffled by the oxygen mask.

Gibbs grinned. "Good girl," he complimented. "That's my little bird."

"Daddy," she whispered, and twitched her fingers. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. He checked her over and didn't see the usual tenting over bedclothes over the fixator.

"You removed that thing?" He asked.

Dr. Levine nodded. "We couldn't leave anything open, so we removed the external rods and filed down the pins. The skin will close over them by itself. Just keep them clean and covered for the next week."

"What about her shattered pelvis?"

The doc fidgeted. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. She's immobilized now with a split, but we'll have an orthopedist fit her with a brace before she goes home. It's a custom piece, and takes two weeks to build, so you'll have to keep her on her back until she gets fitted."

Gibbs couldn't be upset; he was relieved to be able to discuss taking Sara home.

A nurse trundled in with Abby, who smiled widely at Sara and held out both hands.

"Baby girl," she cooed. "I was so scared for you. But you're going to be ok. Big Sis Abby is going to take good care of you."

Sara just smiled and closed her eyes, unwilling to fight the sedation any more. Abby teared up again and dove for Gibbs' arms.

Dr. Levine stared at him quizzically. "How many years apart are they, Agent Gibbs?"

He smiled. "Not so many," he said, and pulled Abby closer.

. . . .

Sara was moved to a room an hour later, and Ziva crept in just as Gibbs was helping the nurses get her settled with a juice box and another bag of antibiotics.

"Zeeba," Sara breathed around the straw. "Hi. M'sick."

"So I heard, _shaifeleh_. Are you feeling any better."

"No," she huffed dramatically, and laid the juice aside. "Bellyache."

"I know, _metukah_. It will be ok soon. This will help, yes?" She produced Sara's bunny and tucked it next to her. Sara nodded.

"Better now," she announced. "Go home?"

Gibbs shook his head. "No, sweet pea. Your fever needs to go down a lot more before Dr. Levine will let me take you home."

"No!" she cried. "Someone touching my farm!"

"No one will touch your farm," he assured her. She eyed him warily and reached for her juice again, but reconsidered and rubbed at her stomach. Gibbs kissed her head and looked at Ziva.

"Heard you had an eventful day."

She reddened but kept her tone light. "Quite," she agreed.

"Guess you'll have a lot of time on your hands for the next few weeks. Maybe you ought to spend more time at our house. I could use some help."

She glared at him. "I have plenty to keep me busy. Appointments and such."

He offered Sara the juice again and she took it this time. "Not a suggestion, David. You're staying with me for the duration."

"I do not need a babysitter, Gibbs."

"Breaking Godwin's nose tells me otherwise."

Sara looked up, eyes wide, mouth agape.

"No, sweet pea. We're not sending you back to him. Mr. Godwin is in jail for a long time because of how he treated you. Remember how Dr. Goldman told you it was wrong for a grown up to hit a kid?" Gibbs stroked her cheek. "Remember that?"

"Memmer it. Him is in jail f'effer."

Ziva slid closer to the bed. "That's right. He is in jail forever."

Sara put her thumb in her mouth and leaned into Gibbs' hand. With the oxygen cannula under her nose and the IVs in her ankles and hand, she looked like a little, waify pincushion. Ziva clucked her tongue maternally and straightened the blanket.

Gibbs stood. "I need to hit the head and grab a coffee. Five minutes?"

"We will be fine. Right, _shaifeleh_?"

"Be ok, Zeeba. Ok, Daddy."

He left. Sara sipped thoughtfully at her juice, seawater eyes locked on Ziva.

"What, _n'sicha_?" Ziva finally asked.

Sara continued to stare for a long minute, then pulled the straw from her mouth. The juicebox gurgled as it took in air.

"A bad man hurting you, Zeeba? Him taking the c'r'ette and burning you. There." She pointed to a cluster of circular burn mark above Ziva's right elbow.

"Like this." She lifted the sleeve of her own hospital gown and pointed to a similar cluster of scars above the top of her cast.

"See?" She said. "See dem?"

"I see them," Ziva agreed vacantly, dreamily. The room tilted and she had to sit down in Gibbs' abandoned chair.

"Did thems hurt you?" Sara asked again. "Zeeba? Bad mans?"

Ziva faltered, unable to respond without either lying or traumatizing Sara further. "I don't know," she finally mumbled.

Gibbs returned with coffee for himself and tea for her. He took in her stricken face and was instantly alarmed.

"You ok?" he asked gently.

She shrugged, tearful. "I am fine."

"Zeeba sad," Sara supplied, voice thick. "Daddy? Go home?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, sweet pea, but Dr. Levine said no. Not for another few days. We talked about that. Remember?"

She thought for a minute, nose wrinkled, then nodded. "Memmer," she drawled, and began to drowse. Ziva stood.

"I will go home," she announced. "And we can talk later. Goodnight, _shaifeleh_. Sleep well. I hope your fever is gone tomorrow."

She shot Gibbs a loaded glance and crept out.

. . . .

To his surprise, Ziva returned with Tony after Sara fell asleep. She dropped a container of take-out on the bedside table and settled herself in the unoccupied chair. Tony leaned kissed Sara's head and leaned against the wall.

"So Abby told you what happened?" He asked softly.

Gibbs shrugged. "Sorta. I want a full report."

Ziva crossed her arms and sulked. Tony took a breath.

"Ziva was interviewing Godwin about his involvement with Hazelbaker—they drugs we found were the same as what he was selling—and he called Ziva an assortment of names I won't repeat in polite company."

Gibbs nodded. "I heard that part. Who started the fight?"

"Verbally? Godwin. Physically? Ziva."

She sniffed and gazed at Sara. The fever left twin spots of color on her otherwise pale cheeks. She smoothed her own hair back and defended herself.

"Godwin said that it was my fault he was in jail. If I hadn't asked him about Sara, he would be out. He said he should have killed her and I lost my temper." She broke down, covered her face, and cried.

Tony and Gibbs exchanged looks of disbelief. Not in a thousand years did they expect tears. Righteous indignation? Perhaps. Rage? Definitely. But Ziva looked small and lost and very, very vulnerable.

"Ziver is going to stay with me while she's on suspension," Gibbs supplied, and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn't protest this time, only wiped her face and nodded miserably.

"I will help him take care of Sara," she agreed.

"And yourself," Tony insisted.

Ziva nodded again. "Yes," she said bitterly. "I shall take care of myself."

"You will if you want to keep your job," Gibbs groused.

Tony reached out to smooth her hair, but Gibbs' sharp look made him draw his hand back. Ziva turned to both of them, spine stuff.

"Sara asked me today if _bad men_ hurt me. I did not know how to answer." Her eyes were blazing, but not with anger, with compassion and protection. "She pointed to these scars and compared them to ones of her own." Ziva pulled up the drapey sleeve of her top and exposed the half-dozen circular burn scars.

"Cigarette burns" Gibbs noted aloud.

"She has the same marks in the same place."

He frowned and delicately pulled her broken arm into the circle of light thrown by the wall sconce. Sure enough, five circular burn scars were clustered between her shoulder and the top of her cast. He drew in a sharp breath and fixed hard eyes on Tony and Ziva.

"Don't you ever let me get my hands on him," he spat. "I will tear that bastard apart."

Tony feigned puzzlement. "Well you shot Saleem, Boss, so I suppose you mean Godw—"

"You know damn well who I mean," he snarled quietly. "If I ever see him, I will rip him to shreds. I will bury my sig so far up his—"

Sara sighed and pulled her arm from Gibbs' loose grip. He swallowed and dropped his chin to his chest. Ziva scrubbed at her eyes.

Tony stood. "You staying all night, Boss?"

"Yeah. Take Ziva to my house. I'll check in with you both in the morning."

Ziva readied herself to leave. "Call us if you need us." The left, stepping close together and out the door.

"Roger that," Gibbs replied to no one, and settled himself in a chair once again. The pulseox beeped, an aide squeaked by in rubber-soled shoes, and Sara dreamily lifted her hand to her mouth.


	25. Resurrection Fern

__**More alerts! How special am I? Thank you, thank you!**

_Like stubborn boys across the road,_

_ We'll keep everything._

_ -Iron & Wine, "Resurrection Fern."_

Sara's fever flexed its muscles for days. Sometimes she was calm and lucid, listening as Gibbs or Ziva would read stories and encourage juice and clear broth. Other times she was inconsolable, crying out at the slightest touch, begging empty spaces not to hurt her. The setback was unexpected; she had been progressing so nicely until the sepsis took hold, and Gibbs was flustered by the backslide. Weakened and aching, Sara could no longer sit up unassisted or drink from an open cup. Julie visited on Friday morning and though she was always buoyant in her outlook for Sara, she was shocked at how badly she'd declined.

"We'll have to backtrack," she admitted. "Her core strength and stability needs to be within normal range before we can start moving forward again. We can still work on her leg, though."

Gibbs nodded, guilt gnawing at his guts. The orthopedist, a young, athletic physician's assistant named Brian, had come by earlier to measure Sara for her new brace. She would wear it for three to six months, but it encouraged, rather than discouraged, exercise and eventual weight-bearing activities.

"Brian said she should be mobile in about a month," he relayed to her. "Think that's reasonable?"

Julie squinted at him. "It's not impossible," she pondered. "But my earliest guess would be six weeks. Let's get her sitting up first, then we'll work on getting around." She made some marks in her notes and swept her eyes over his slumped shoulders and dark circles.

"You haven't given up, have you?" She asked.

Gibbs told himself that her blonde perkiness was _not_ irritating him right now. "Never," he ground out, and brushed his knuckles down Sara's good arm.

"I know it's frustrating, Agent Gibbs, but she's one tough kid. She's going to regain the ground she lost and go farther than you or I expect." She patted Sara's foot over the white cotton blanket. "I'll be back with Brian for her fitting. Take care."

She passed Dr. Goldman in the doorway. Her short, grey curls were wild in the humidity.

"Gibbs, how are you both doing?"

"We're fine," he snapped. "We'd be even more fine if we could get a break from this damn hospital."

She nodded knowingly. "Sara's health concerns are very real and very threatening, Gibbs. Many people with special needs children feel the same way."

"She's _immuno-compromised_," he informed her haughtily. "And it's your job to shrink her, not me."

Dr. Goldman shook her head. "That's where you're wrong, Agent Gibbs. Treating the family is a big part of treating the child. Children take their cues from their parents-if you internalize everything then she will, too. We're trying to get her to open up about her trauma, not hide it further."

Irritation grabbed Gibbs by the nape of his neck. "Well what do you prescribe for how guilty I feel?"

"A kick in the pants," she countered smoothly. "There was nothing you could have done to stop this. You did nothing wrong—you gave her all the appropriate medication, all the right care, all the right unconditional love. This is not your fault."

She delivered her last words with sharp jabs of her index finger. Gibbs drew his shoulders back and puffed his chest.

"I know you're pissed," she said. "So go to the gym. Go for a run. Get a babysitter and go watch some needlessly violent contact sport. Deal with your guilt away from your kid. Then come back ready to hold her and make the nightmares go away."

His posture remained tense. "I was supposed to meet with the adoption lawyer this morning," he admitted. "We were going to start the paperwork."

"So you've changed your mind?"

"No!" he almost roared. "I would _never_…" He faltered for a minute, scrambling for the right words. Failing, he ran a hand over his head and somewhere in the recesses of his foggy brain decided he needed a haircut.

"So you rescheduled?"

"Yeah, for next Monday. We'll be home by then and my coworker can watch Sara while I'm gone."

Dr. Goldman smiled brightly and waved her hand. Glass-bead bracelets flashed. "Excellent," she praised. "And tell her what you're doing. Keep her in the loop; it'll give her a sense of control and she'll like that. She wants to be included."

"She knows. I told her already. That was the day she started calling me 'Daddy'. That night, actually. She had a nightmare right before I told her and she woke up screaming."

She nodded. "I remember. That was a big day for both of you."

Sara stirred and Gibbs stroked her cheek, shushing her.

"You're an excellent father, Agent Gibbs. But remember that self-care is just as important as caring for her."

"I'll keep it in mind," he acquiesced. "But I'm not taking a vacation any time soon."

"No," Dr. Goldman agreed. "You'll do that together to celebrate the end of all of…_this_." Her bracelets caught the light again and Sara opened her fever-bright eyes.

"Daddy," she mumbled. "You don' let go."

"Never," he whispered. Dr. Goldman waved and left.

"How do you feel, sweet pea?"

"M'sick," she confirmed. "Need maybe some juice."

"Ok. I'll tell Mimi and she'll get you some. Want some soup?"

"Juice please, daddy."

Nurse Mimi answered the call. "Thirsty, Sara?"

"She's asking for juice."

Mimi was hesitant. "She's not asking for food yet?"

"She's not hungry," Gibbs insisted. "Now how about that juice?"

. . . .

The elevator opened with a whoosh and Tony strode into Abby's lab with a swagger he didn't feel. His Armani suit was rumpled and his hair had the gone-through look of three days' pounding pavement. Had he showered today? He couldn't remember.

"You rang?" He deadpanned.

"Yeah. Ducky pulled two sets of epithelials off Hazelbaker's clothes. The first belong to Antoine Murphy, one of Godwin's clients. Metro is bringing him down now. The other set belongs to Jeffry Timmons, a gas station cashier. Both of them live in Congress Heights.

"So Metro is bringing them _both_ in?"

Abby shook her head. "No, they can't trace Timmons. Which is so _strange_," she drawled. "Because he just happens to have a Colt 1911 and an AK-47 variant shotgun registered in his name."

A 1911 had been the weapon used to kill Hazelbaker. Tony sighed, partially in relief that they had something in forensic evidence, and partially in frustration because Timmons was in the wind.

"Where are his guns?"

"Lost," Abby shrugged. "Metro had a warrant for them, but they didn't find anything when they searched his apartment. They're dragging the river by St. Elizabeth's, but they won't be finding anything."

"Suspect and guns both missing? That sounds in no way fishy. BOLO?"

"Yeah, for the tri-state. How are things on the home front?"

His eyebrows went up. "What do you mean, Abbs?"

"Ziva. Gibbs. Sara. How are they? Any news? I've been down here with Major Mass Spec and not much time for family. Real-people family," she amended quickly, and gave it a pat.

"Ziva is surly, Sara is the same, and Gibbs is climbing the walls. Want to go over to GW with me tonight? I'm going to order dinner for everyone from Campiolo's."

"Can we stop by the bookstore? There's a new picture book about the Civil Rights Era that I want to buy for Sara."

"You going to get her marching and yelling for equality? She hasn't started shaving her legs yet, so if you indoctrinate her now—"

Abby took a swat at him and he backed off, laughing. He meant no harm; he was just trying to get her riled up. Abby knew he was not nearly the chauvinist he pretended to be, but she played along anyway because they were both brimming with unspent emotional energy.

"I'll be back down at five. We can pick up dinner and Women's Studies 101 and be at the hospital by a quarter of six at the latest."

"That sounds great! Yay!" She cheered, and whipped around to one of her beeping machines.

"The trace we pulled of Hazelbaker's clothes will be done by then," she called over her shoulder. "Maybe we can get an idea of his whereabouts after he posted bail."

Tony gave her a thumbs-up, slammed down a Caf-Pow, and left.

. . . .

Tim beat them to the hospital. He'd signed off with Metro, booked Murphy at Central, and dropped by Gibbs' house to pick up a few of Sara's farm animals. She fretted constantly, Gibbs reported, that someone was going to steal it. When Tony and Abby arrived he was handing her two cows and a blue rooster. She thanked him enthusiastically and kissed each animal's head.

"Elf Lord brought you some livestock, huh? Are these the ones Papa carved for you?" Tony asked, and handed her a lollypop the size of both his fists.

Gibbs swiped it before she could take it from him. "Say 'thank you' to Tony for bringing you a treat, but the doctor says you need some real food first. Eat some toast and then you can have this."

Sara's face darkened. "I want that," she said shyly, and looked away.

"After dinner," he chided gently.

Tony took Sara's side. "C'mon, Boss, she's feeling lousy and stuck in bed. Let her have a treat."

Gibbs gave in, unwrapped the candy, and handed it over, but not before shooting Tony a look that said _don't pull a stunt like that again_. Tony just grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Sara set upon her candy like a wolf cub.

Dinner was handed out, and Tony turned to Abby. "What kind of trace did you pull off Hazelbaker's clothes, Abbs?"

"Carpet fibers," she said quietly, and deliberately rolled her eyes to Sara, who held out her treat.

"You wrap this, Abby? Please?"

"Sugared out, huh?"

"Yeah," she agreed, and eyed Abby's linguine. "Wha'you have?"

"Pasta with creamy sauce. Want to try?"

She shrugged. "A little-little bite?"

Abby wound a fraction of a noodle around her fork and held it out. Sara took it, humming softly. "S'so good."

"Well let's get you a plate of your own."

Gibbs laid his own fork down. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Abbs. Might be too rich for her."

She rolled her eyes. "Gibbs, this is like… nine thousand calories a serving. It can't be a bad thing that this is what she's hungry for."

"Only a little," he cautioned. "And what's up with those carpet fibers?"

Abby looked deliberately at Sara and back to him. _Godwin's_, she signed, fingerspelling his name with jerky, angry motions.

_Metro_, he signed back, and she nodded.

Tony watched with interest. "I don't need an ASL dictionary to figure out what you just said," he sighed. "I should expect a call from Metro tomorrow morning. And so should you, Boss."

"They're not talking to her as long as she's in here," he murmured.

Ziva spoke lowly. "There is a murderer on the loose, Gibbs. You cannot withhold a possible witness from the police. You know that."

Gibbs rubbed his eyes and tossed his empty dinner container in the trashcan. "Then why aren't they here now?"

"Maybe they have other leads," Tim supplied softly. "This is turning out to be much bigger than we thought. I'm sure there are other witnesses."

"McGee, she has known every single person of interest in this case so far. What would make Hazelbaker's killer any different?"

"Dumb luck," Tony supplied.

Sara, seemingly uninterested in the conversation around her, held up her empty plate. "M'done," she announced, and licked at the sauce ringing her mouth.

Ziva cleaned it off with a damp paper napkin, pausing to lay her hand on her brow. "She's still warm," she mused. "When is the antibiotic supposed to start working?"

"Already has," Gibbs replied. "It's just a matter of time before the fever breaks. Dr. Levine is happy as long as her red and white cell counts are improving."

A knock sounded at the door, startling everyone, and detectives Morales and Nachshon pushed through, apologies already forming on their lips.

"Agent Gibbs," Morales tried, "We just have a few questions for Sara. We'll be brief, I promise."

"Be gentle," he admonished, and sat on the bed next to Sara.

"Sara?" Nachshon began, "How are you tonight?"

"M'sick," she replied gravely.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Can we talk for a minute?"

"S'pose," she shrugged dismissively, clearly disinterested. Gibbs snickered under his breath and hid it with a subtle sniff.

"Do you know this guy?" Morales held out a picture of Hazelbaker.

Sara shook her head.

"You never saw him with Mr. Godwin?"

"No."

"Not even at the party you told us about last time."

"_No_. Never seeing him," she insisted testily.

"Ok," Nachshon supplied. "How about this guy?" She replaced the photo with one of Antoine Murphy.

"Yeah," Sara sighed. "Seeing him at Mr. Godwin's house. Him is mean. Him pulling my hair. And Mr. Godwin yelling at me."

To Gibbs' surprise, she didn't cry, but her jaw was set and she was toying with the edge of the blanket.

"Did you ever see any fights happen when you were with Mr. Godwin?"

Sara nodded. "Yeah. Some other fighting with him." She pointed at the picture of Murphy.

"Who was that other person, Sara?"

Shrug.

"Did you see anyone with a gun?"

"No," she replied, and wordlessly asked Gibbs to pick her up.

He smoothed her hair but shook his head. "No, sweet pea. You have to stay laying down until Brian comes back with your brace."

She threw a hand over her face. "Don' like that, Daddy."

Morales looked at Gibbs. "Not doing so hot, is she?"

He shrugged. "She has mild sepsis. They had to remove the fixator, so her fractures are unstable. I can't pick her up until she's fitted with a new brace. She's here until the fever breaks, or Sunday, whatever comes first. Did you have any other questions?"

"No. But all the forensics came back from the crime scene. We shouldn't need Sara to testify. If we do, we can record it at home and play it for the court. Judge Allen won't put a child on the stand in front of her abuser."

Everyone in the room shifted in relief. Gibbs blew out a breath and his shoulders relaxed, but his stomach did not stop its relentless tossing. The detectives closed their notebooks and readied themselves to leave.

Gibbs stopped them with a raised hand. "Do you have any other leads on Hazelbaker's…?" He deliberately left the sentence unfinished even though Sara was sliding into sleep.

"A few," Morales revealed. "But Sara is the only real link we have between these guys."

"All because CFSA dropped her in the wrong house at the wrong time?" Tony jabbed, eyes flashing.

"Basically," Nachshon conceded. "It's a shame, I know. We're always looking for other possibilities. Regardless, the case for Godwin is set in stone. All the abuse charges stuck. We're submitting all the evidence we can. We're hopeful that he'll be convicted on every count."

It was so simple, Gibbs thought absently. Godwin had committed a crime and now he would be punished for it. A door open and closed. A light on and off. Gibbs looked around the room at each member of his team and at the Metro PD detectives who pursued the case so earnestly. They were all here because they believed in doing the right thing. They might (just might) be there because they loved him, and by extension, Sara. Or maybe it was the other way around. His sore heart beat hard for a minute. He swallowed and flexed his callused hands.

"Well, Agent Gibbs," Nachshon ventured, "we'll get out of here. Give us a call if she says anything."

"Yeah," he said hollowly. "Goodnight."

. . . .

Gibbs was shocked when Brian arrived carrying two boxes on Saturday afternoon.

"Thought Levine said it would be two weeks?"

Brian smiled. "I wanted to get her fitted and out of here. She's had about enough of that bed."

He was absolutely right; Sara had been irritable and restless all morning. The fever was down, thought not broken completely, and attempts at distraction were mostly unsuccessful. Tim and Abby had tried to show her a cartoon video on his laptop, but Sara had thrown her hand over her eyes and proclaimed it hurt her head. Now she perked up at the mention of going home.

"Leaving?" she chirped and poked at Gibbs' hand.

"Let's get this on and find Dr. Levine. Maybe you can get out of here by dinner."

Sara's new brace was a wide, semi-rigid plastic corset that buckled snugly around her hips. Connected with hinged supports were cuffs that fastened around each thigh. The whole thing was lined with colorful, absorbent material that would wick sweat away from her skin. They finished quickly and Brian collected the discarded packaging and took it to the nurses' station to be thrown away.

Sara hadn't made a peep during the fitting, she simply laid in the bed, limp, prone, and allowed herself to be manipulated.

Gibbs laid his hand on her bare chest; the sling and swath were no longer needed and he thought she looked a little naked; he'd simply adjusted to seeing her in it. Dr. Levine said her collarbone was healed, pin and all, though tape and gauze pads still covered the fresh incision in her belly.

"Ya ok, sweet pea?"

She didn't look at him for a long time. When she did, her eyes were big and wet.

"Ya ok?" He repeated.

"Don' wanna be a robot, Daddy," she whispered pitifully. "Jus' getting more metal parts."

"I know," he cooed, and stroked her hair. "You're not going to be a robot. But remember what we said the first time? It's not forever, it's just until you're all better."

Brian returned with Julie this time. "Heya, kiddo," she greeted happily. "Look what you got! Do you feel better now?"

Sara yanked the sheet over her face and muttered _want it off _from underneath.

Gibbs shrugged. "She's usually so patient. I don't know what's going on."

"She hit the wall." Brian offered with a rueful smile. "I would've by now, too. But let's show her what she can do now. Maybe once she realizes she can be more independent she'll be a little happier."

Julie reached down and gently tugged Sara up, sheet and all, then rolled her knees out and her hips down.

"In a day or two she'll be able to do that on her own. For now we need to help her get positioned. See?" She pulled her hands away and Sara swayed, but stayed upright. "The brace keeps her hips abducted which gives her a stable tripod. That's a big step towards walking, believe it or not."

Brian made a few notes for Dr. Levine. "She needs to wear this twenty-four hours a day for now. Once the incision heals you can take it off for bath time. Check for skin breakdown every day and cover anything you find with moleskin."

Sara's eyes rolled in their sockets and she clenched the sheet tight in her fists. "Down," she sighed. "Please?"

Brian lowered her to the bed and rolled her onto her side. "Dizziness is normal. She's been on her back for five days. The more she sits up, the better she'll feel."

Gibbs just nodded uncertainly and looked down at Sara. The greenish cast was gone from her face but she was still gulping air as if trying not to throw up. He leaned down to put their faces close together. She wrapped her arm around his neck.

"It's ok, sweet pea. I'm here," he crooned. "It's all going to be ok. I know it's hard to be patient."

Brian and Julie stood, and he spoke. "Feel free to pick her up as long as she's wearing her brace. Now we'll get out of here so she calms down. Dr. Levine will be around in half an hour. Good luck."

"See you Monday," Julie chimed and Gibbs reminded himself to ask Ziva to take her to HSC for nine that morning.

He stood upright and brought her with him; for the first time ever he could settle her on his hip instead of holding her bridal-style in his arms. It was a familiar position and he sighed, melancholic, thinking of Kelly and how her auburn hair would adopt the light on a late summer afternoon. He laid his cheek on Sara's and they looked out the window onto Washington Circle Park below. The sun was setting and the buildings cast long shadows on K and L Streets.

"Don' wanna be a robot, Daddy," Sara repeated.

He tightened his grip. "You're not going to be a robot, sweet pea. It's just to hold your broken bones together while you get better."

Goosebumps rose on her skin and he rubbed absently at her arm. She laid one hand on his jaw and turned his face to her own. Her seawater eyes were hard.

"I don't want to see a bad man," she murmured. "I don't want them."

A tiny bell began to ring in his ears. His gut intensified its churning. "The bad guys are in jail forever, Sar. They can't get you any more. You're safe with me."

She studied his face for several long moments, thinking hard about something neither of them could name.

"What?" He prompted, and bounced her a little in his arms. "What are you thinking?"

She snapped out of it, shook her head once and laid it on his shoulder. "Zeeba," she sighed softly, and put her thumb in her mouth.


	26. Tether

**So, gentle readers, I just figured out how to see my story stats; hits, visitors, reviews, alerts, blahblahblah. (Ok, so whatever. Computers are all new and stuff to me, sorta.) I'm amazed and honored at how many people have said super kind things and how many are following this story. Shocked! Astounded! Warm and fuzzy! Thanks and thanks and thanks. And next time I won't be twenty-six chapters in before I figure this stuff out. And if there are any reviewers I forgot to say 'thanks' to, forgive me. I didn't always get the alerts in ye olde inbox. Love and love, Mecha.**

_You can bury the past,_

_but it's a mausoleum._

_-Indigo Girls, "Tether."_

"Grab your gear," Tony called, already gripping his own go-bag. "We gotta head back to Southeast. Godwin's neighbor reported suspicious activity at his house."

Tim grabbed an extra clip and his coffee and they tore down to the garage and across the Eleventh Street Bridge. Congress Heights loomed ahead of them like an open sore on a DC street map. He took in Tony's stiff shoulders and grim-eyed glare and decided to lighten the mood.

"So Abby told me Ziva's doing really well, all things considered. She's been at Gibbs'?"

Tony nodded curtly. "She's fine."

Tim backpedaled a bit. "I mean, I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I thought you spent yesterday over there—"

"McNebbish, I want to catch a bad guy."

"Ok," he replied mildly. "Let's catch a bad guy."

Tony pulled up to a stoplight and cracked hid knuckles. "My gut's telling me this isn't going down easy."

Tim was puzzled. "I thought only Gibbs trusted his gut like that."

Tony sighed, long-suffering. "Listen, McSkeptic, I've been doing this long enough to know when things are gonna get ugly. I may not have a PhD from MIT or whatever, but I can read a scene and what's not being said. Ok?"

"Ok," McGee agreed, and unsnapped his holster.

Two patrol cars were on scene when they arrived, but the street was quiet otherwise. A wino slumped on a mailbox at the end of the block. Two crows fought over a fast-food wrapper. Tony and Tim slid out of the Charger and took the steps two at a time, weapons ready.

A radio crackled and Officer Brant from Metro slunk around the corner, his back to the wall. A shadow swept across the window and Tim nodded to Tony, who kicked in the front door in one try. The frame splintered and they charged, weapons drawn. Timmons was in the dining room, brandishing a shotgun.

"NCIS!" Tony shouted. "Drop your weapon!"

Timmons waved the gun at Tony, then at Tim. The veins in his arms throbbed, the tendons in his neck tightened as a wave of adrenalin crested and ebbed. Tony flicked off his safety.

"I said drop your weapon," he repeated, voice flat and dangerous. "Now!"

Timmons grinned mirthlessly and shook his head. "No way," he chuckled. "I heard about you. Godwin told me about all of you. With your power suits and your Georgetown apartments. You come down here to Southeast like you know what's best for poor folk. Fact is, you don't. We're just doing what we can to get by."

The shotgun wavered in his hand. Through the kitchen window, Tony caught the eye of Officer Tindin, posted outside the back door.

"Where's the girl?" Timmons asked casually. "The one that busted Godwin's thickass skull?"

Tony laid his finger inside the trigger guard. "Drop. The. Weapon." He said again.

Timmons knelt and laid the shotgun down. Officer Tindin tackled him from behind, Tony pulled the gun away.

"How'd you know about Ziva?" Tony asked.

Timmons pressed his face to the floor and refused to answer.

Once outside, Tim shrugged. "Think Murphy told him?"

"Murphy's at Central." Tony said, and blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Let's get these guys booked and Timmons down to the Navy Yard. We'll get answers in Interrogation."

. . . .

Timmons, underclothed in an A-shirt and ratty painter's pants, sat in the interrogation room like the teacher's pet in the front row. Hands folded, ankles crossed, he gazed wistfully around the room before lighting on Tony.

"Hello, Agent DiNozzo," he greeted happily. "How are you today?"

"Fine, thank you," Tony replied, and studied him, taking in his dilated pupils, bloodshot sclerae, and whitened knuckles. He shifted Hazelbaker's professional photo across the table.

"Do you know this man?"

Timmons stopped fidgeting and crossed his arms. "Yes, I do." He declared. "We went to school together in Frostburg. Not a bad guy till he joined up, telling me we could have a better life and whatever bullshit. Go to college." He exhaled sharply through his teeth, disgusted.

"What happened after Hazelbaker enlisted?"

"I moved out here with my girlfriend 'cause she was going to start a new job. She works with doctors, helping them turn all that chicken-scratch into computer files. But she dumped me as soon as she got her first paycheck, so me and Brent went out partying a few times."

"Private Hazelbaker is dead. What can you tell me about that?"

Timmons pushed himself away from the table. "You ain't got nothing," he said quietly.

Tim scoffed. "Why do you guys always say that? We have plenty or we wouldn't be talking right now. Tell me what you know about Hazelbaker being dead."

Timmons leaned against the wall and crossed his gnarled arms, gazing into the two-way mirror.

"We have trace evidence that says you touched his clothes." Tony stepped closes to Timmons and balled his fists in the front of his t-shirt. "Like this," he growled, and hauled him upwards. "And I bet if we run a quick test on your right hand, we'll find gunshot residue." He released him with a shove and pulled a face. "Among other things."

"Where's your girl, Agent DiNozzo?" Timmons whispered. "Where is she? You better keep your eye on her. Yes. Keep your eye on the birdie."

He grinned, all meth-mouthed, and Tony balled his shirt in his fists again and slammed him once, twice against the wall. Tim beat on the glass.

"Lawyer," Timmons growled, and fixed his gaze again on the mirror.

. . . .

A calm followed Gibbs into the house. He'd met the lawyer and begun the paperwork, and while that in and of itself was a tremendous weight lifted from his tired shoulders, he'd needed more time alone. So he went to the gym, to the gun range, and the hardware store, figuring once Sara was asleep he and Ziva could finish the rudder mount.

Dropping his bags on the floor, he found Sara sat at the dining room table, working through a plate heaped with chicken sausage, baked sweet potato, and applesauce. She stopped shoveling long enough to give him a kiss hello. Ziva appeared in the doorway with a plate for each of them.

"She hasn't stopped eating all day," she reported. "She ate her entire snack twenty minutes into her OT session. I had to run across the street to buy her a roll and some carrot sticks before we headed home, then she has had two lunches, two snacks, and this is her second helping of dinner."

He shrugged, happy she had an appetite again.

Sara gave him her crooked little smile. "You having a good day, Daddy?"

He leaned down to kiss her again. "I'm so happy you're home, sweet pea. That gave me a great day."

"You working?"

"No, I went to the lawyer. Remember how I said we were going to make you Sara Gibbs instead of Sara Cohen? The lawyer is going to help us with that. He has to make some documents for us and then we'll talk to a judge. Then you can be Sara Gibbs." She looked at him sideways but didn't stop chewing.

He stabbed a piece of meat. "What did you do today?"

"Playing with Zeeba at school," she answered casually, and began to tick of activities on her fingers. "Playing ball, playing rings, playing st'etching, playing swing."

She stopped and looked at Ziva for encouragement. "And then," she said grandly, "going to the park. Stroller."

"I jogged," Ziva explained. "Sara wanted to play on the swings a little more. Then she fell asleep on the way home."

Gibbs looked at Sara mock-sternly. "Sounds like you're feeling a lot better, sweet pea."

She looked back at him with equal gravity. "M'not sick anymore, Daddy," she said, and shoved another forkful of sausage into her mouth.

The front door swung open and Tony, Tim, and Abby all appeared, looking haggard but relieved.

"We got 'em, Boss," Tony reported. Exhaustion was written all over his face. "But we need to have an adults-only conversation after little people go to bed." He glanced worriedly at Ziva, who would not return his gaze. A strange feeling twisted Gibbs' stomach again. He'd had such a peaceful day and was looking forward to a quiet evening with his girls. He waited for Sara to scoop the last bite of applesauce into her mouth before he stood, tugged her up out of her seat, and handed her off to Abby.

"Bathe this," he ordered gently, "and put it in pjs." He laid smacking kisses on both of their cheeks and shepherded them towards the stairs.

"How long?" she asked over her shoulder.

"At least fifteen," he growled. "And pyjamas go under the brace, not over or she'll get sores on her back. She'll show you how to do it."

Sara nodded shyly. "I'll showing you, Abby. And Daddy," she called, "maybe treat?"

"We'll see," he conceded, and paused until he was sure they were out of earshot.

"SitRep."

Ziva spoke first. "Tony texted me this afternoon. Apparently Timmons told him that I was …threatened." She took a breath. "For injuring Godwin."

Gibbs went rigid. "Then why," he asked slowly, "is there no protection detail outside?"

She rolled her eyes. "He was high as a mite. And how would he have any idea what I look like or where I'm staying I wasn't even there when they brought him in."

Tony raised his hands. "It's _kite_, Ziva. _High as a kite._ Boss, I asked for unis out front but Ziva declined."

Gibbs hackles rose. "And who gave her a choice?" He barked.

"I am former Mossad," she argued. "There is no reason for a protection detail. I cam perfectly capable of—"

"You are capable of _nothing_ if you're alone with my kid." He leaned close to her, using his height to his advantage. "Got that, David?"

Tony broke the ensuing silence with an audible swallow of beer. Ziva was suddenly contrite and dropped her eyes to her hands, loose on the tabletop.

She stared at him, daring, defiant, but realization dawned in her dark eyes and she slumped, defeated. "Yes, Gibbs," she whispered.

He turned abruptly and stormed up the stairs. Tony pushed his beer away. Ziva didn't look up.

"I would never put Sara in danger," she whispered.

"I know," he whispered back, and tucked a curl behind her ear. "He admitted to me that he's afraid for her. He's lost one daughter…"

"I understand that, Tony. But there is absolutely no reason to put police officers outside my door when they could be working the case with NCIS."

"We'd put a Bethesda cop out here," he corrected. "They're not contracted with us. See? No conflict."

She glared back at him. "Don't waste taxpayer dollars," she snarled.

Tony smiled and prepared a retort, but Tim poked his head in the door. "ZNN is doing a special report on drug deaths in the military. You want to watch?"

. . . .

When Gibbs got upstairs Sara was prone on her bedroom floor and Abby was kneeling over her, making the final adjustments to her pyjama bottoms.

Reaching for the discarded brace she said, "ready for this, kiddo?"

"I can help you, Abbs. That thing is easier to take off than to get back on." He took it from her and crouched, knees creaking their discontent. Sara closed her eyes as he slid the corset under her hips and fastened the wide straps.

"I broke my humeral head in first grade," Abby rambled. "Fell off the roof. My little brother and I were trying to parachute with pillow shams we stole from Mrs. Berdich. Anyway, I had to wear an airplane splint for two months while it healed. The Vasey twins from down the block called me "McCroskey" for the entire school year. My dad would stick bags of frozen peas under the straps when the pain got bad."

Gibbs smiled at her story, knowing Abby's scientific, adventurous nature, and saddened a little at the idea of little Abby in pain. It faded quickly when he looked up into Sara's face; she hated when he had to touch her brace. She would either fret about turning into a robot or would go completely silent, retreating far into the space where pain and fear couldn't touch her anymore.

Abby watched with interest as he positioned her hips and fastened the cuffs around her thighs. Sara rolled her wet head to the side and stared into the middle distance.

"Hey Lamby-kins," Abby prodded. "You doin' ok?"

Sara didn't respond. Gibbs guessed it was a "retreat" night.

"Tim brought ice cream if you want some."

No response. Gibbs flashed back to their first meeting in the classroom at the Congress Heights Community Center and a deep sadness crept into his heart-her blank little face, her dirty hands and ragged clothes. How she'd not gotten within arms' reach of him until she was in the hospital and didn't have a choice anymore. He scooped her off the floor and laid her against his chest, pressing his face close to her ear.

"It's ok, baby," he whispered. "You're safe with me, remember."

She blinked up at him, uncomprehending.

Abby rubbed her back. "Sar, wooo. Back to Planet Earth, Sar. We're all waiting for you to reenter the atmosphere."

Sara didn't respond again and Gibbs grew irritated. "Enough, Abbs," he chastised.

Abby pouted, kissed Sara's bare shoulder then Gibbs' cheek, and disappeared down the stairs.

"What's wrong, sweet pea?" Gibbs sighed. He didn't expect an answer, but she lifted her head and looked at him with those same vacant seawater eyes.

"Don' throw me away, Daddy," she begged. "Please."

He sat in the rocker. "Remember how I went to the lawyer today? That was because I want to adopt you. I want to keep you forever. No more foster homes, no more Miss Susan. Just you and me. We talked about that before. When Papa was here…you and me and Ziva were down in the living room…" He tried to jog her memory but she just stared, blank and expectationless.

"_Ox-Cart Man_?" She finally asked, pointing to the picture book that lay on the floor.

"Yeah, sweet pea," he agreed.

"_In October, he backed his ox into his cart and he and his family filled it up…"_

. . . .

The stairs were steeper at five am. Or Gibbs swore it, anway, when his the soles of his running shoes stuck to the treads and he stumbled, banging his elbow against the rail and swearing mildly under his breath. When his eyes adjusted he found that a bluish light emanated from the dining room. He reached for his ankle and pulled his snub-nosed piece.

Swinging around the corner, he sighed in irritation and reholstered his gun. Tim was sitting parked there with his laptop, a bag of apples slices oxidizing on the table next to him.

"The hell you doing here, McGee?"

"I'm cross-checking narco arrests made my Metro this month and names of the people we've questioned in the latest cases—Godwin, Keyman, Hazelbaker, Amick, Murphy—I'm looking for anyone who's on the streets and who might know Ziva."

"And?"

"No one yet. But there are a few names from a party Amick and Hazelbaker went to a while ago. Godwin and Keyman were there. But drug dealers and junkies aren't exactly on the grid, so it's going to take a while."

"You been up all night?"

"No, I crashed for a few hours on the couch." He frowned, almost embarrassed. "But then I heard Sara's nightmare. Couldn't get back to sleep."

Gibbs shrugged. It was the closest thing to an apology Tim would see. "She doesn't have them every night."

Tim nodded. "You going for a run?"

"I'll be back in an hour."

"Should I expect Sara to wake up before then?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Ziva will get her if she does. Just get to work on time. Alright, McGee?"

Tim knew that meant _thank you _and _I will repay you for this someday_ but he just waved and said, "Will do, Boss."


	27. Thunder Road

__**Thanks for the reviews and alerts, folks! And tough stuff ahead. Be warned. Be safe. Love, Mecha.**

Well_ I'm no hero, that's understood._

_All the redemption I can offer, girl,_

_is beneath this dirty hood._

_ -Bruce Springsteen, "Thunder Road."_

A giraffe tumbled to the floor and Dr. Goldman handed it back to Sara, who replaced it in the pen with two goats and a bear; apparently the zookeeper didn't mind if her subjects snacked on each other after-hours.

"So, Sara," she began, "how are you doing today?"

Sara thought for a minute. "Fine," she answered softly, and replaced a lion with a cheetah.

"Can you tell me what your animals are doing?"

She frowned. "They jus' animals."

"They don't have feelings?" Dr. Goldman pressed.

The air in the room changed. Sara stopped playing and pulled her hands back, crossing them awkwardly over her chest.

"Maybe not," she said, chin jutted out. She stared hard at the table then blurted, "I don' like feelings."

Dr. Goldman zeroed in. "Even happy feelings? Even the feeling you get when someone give you a hug or a treat?"

Gibbs had been watching with interest and now he shifted in his seat.

"No," Sara sulked. "I like hugs. And treats."

"So what kind of feelings do you hate?"

"Sad ones," she sniffed, and let her eyes wander the room.

"Do you get sad feelings a lot?"

She opened her mouth to respond and then closed it with a _pop._ The patented vacant expression crept across her face. Dr. Goldman tried twice to draw her out, changed the subject once, and then surrendered and turned to Gibbs.

"We're not doing this today," she said bluntly. "She needs to process before we can go any farther. Get her snack ready. I'll call Adjoa."

He retrieved a little cloth bag of carrot sticks, hummus, crackers, sliced cheese, and a cookie from her backpack and handed it to Sara. She took it numbly and laid it on her lap. He crouched to eye-level and stroked her cheek.

"It's ok, sweet pea. You can tell us why you're feeling bad."

She shook her head to clear it and met his gaze. "Going home Zeeba," she whispered.

He wasn't quite sure what she meant. "You want to go home to Ziva?"

She nodded.

"Ok," he agreed. "But go have your snack and play with Adjoa for a little bit. We'll go home early today and see Ziva."

Adjoa arrived in a matter of seconds and wheeled her out to the therapy room. Dr. Goldman made a few notes in her file.

"What did she ask you?" She fairly demanded.

"She wants to go home and see Ziva."

"And Ziva is one of your team members?"

"Yeah. She got suspended last week for punching out the guy we arrested for abusing Sara. He had to have surgery. She's off until the middle of next month—staying with me until she goes back to work."

Dr. Goldman held up her hand "Does Sara know about this?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "We were talking about it in front of her but she was still pretty sick. I'm not sure she really understood."

"So there have been a lot of changes happening lately?"

Gibbs shrugged again. "Not really. I try to keep a really stable schedule for her. Ziva isn't really a guest, she's family. And Sara is wild about her."

She leaned forward. "Tell me more about that. For how long have they had this bond?"

"Since Day One. Ziva was the first person to question Sara about her father's murder. Even when she was still in the hospital it was pretty obvious that the two of them were…"

"Kindred spirits?" Dr. Goldman supplied.

"Guess so."

She took more notes, nodding vaguely. Her reading glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose and she pushed them up with one finger.

"Tell me about Ziva."

"Mossad assassin," he offered.

The doctor almost laughed. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," he growled. "She was a liaison with NCIS initially…" He trailed off, thinking. Ziva's story was long and complicated, and she wasn't even thirty years old. "But now she's a citizen and an NCIS agent." He finished authoritatively.

"Why is Sara so keen on her?"

"It's mutual."

Dr. Goldman sighed. "What aren't you telling me, Agent Gibbs?"

It was Gibbs' turn to sigh. "I think this has everything to do with it: two years ago, Ziva left NCIS and returned to Mossad. They sent her on a suicide mission. She was captured by terrorists in East Africa."

She sat back in her chair, eyes wide. "And she survived."

He shrugged. "Yes, mostly."

"Ok," she mused, nodding. "I get it now. She came back changed. Maybe damaged. So she understands on some level what Sara has been through."

Gibbs was silent for a long time before speaking again.

"Sara saw some scars on Ziva's arm one night. Burn scars, from a cigarette. She knew what they were and how they'd gotten there."

"What did she say?"

"That a bad man burned Ziva with a cigarette. Ziva had no idea how to respond."

"Did you witness this?"

"No. Ziva told me about it a few hours later." He fell silent again. Anger churned his stomach and he wished for an antacid. "How do you think she knew that?" He demanded. "How the hell does a five year old comprehend torture?" He stood and began to pace.

Dr. Goldman put her hands out in a gesture meant to slow him down.

"Gibbs, Sara is a deeply sensitive child. Empathic, even. She knows how to read people, especially people she cares about. Remember how she told me about what happened in foster care and then she immediately turned to you and asked if you were angry? She can sense changes in our emotions without us having to say anything. She probably doesn't realize she's doing it. And it's not a bad thing to be so intuitive. I'm sure it has saved her life at least once."

Gibbs almost rolled his eyes. "She can't spell her own name but she can sense what I'm feeling? Like some gypsy mind-reader?"

Dr. Goldman was unruffled. "She reads your behavior, your posture, your facial expression. But it's more than that to her; she's _sensing_ it. It's part of who she is."

Gibbs huffed, deflated. "So what does she _sense_ about Ziva?"

"Probably that they share similar experiences of violence, fear, uncertainty, powerlessness. They've both been silenced in some way. They both understand how it feels to be vulnerable, overpowered. A victim."

He sat heavily. "I understand now," he said. "It's probably good for Ziva to be around."

"Let them heal together," she agreed. "It's a good thing."

"What about that blank expression?" He asked. "She's been doing that a lot lately. It's like she's trying to disappear."

She shook her head. "She's trying to protect herself. It happens when she feels out of control. Just work through it and I think that will stop on its own. Or it won't, and she'll learn to cope with it. When does it happen most?"

"Anytime I touch that damn brace," he groused.

She fixed him with a flat gaze. "So you, and adult male, lay her on her back and strap her down."

He bristled. "She knows I would never hurt her! Didn't you say that last time?"

"We're talking about automatic response, Gibbs. She may know, logically, that you won't hurt her, but her body is preparing itself for assault. Can she get up? Does she try to get away?"

He swallowed, fists clenching and unclenching. "No. Julie is still working on getting her self-sufficient. She can roll but not sit up. Soon, though."

"Give her a little more control next time and see if it happens again. Call me after and let me know. And I want to meet Ziva."

He scoffed. "She'll love that."

Dr. Goldman pursed her mouth. "No, just tell her it's for Sara. If they have the relationship I think they do, then she'll come."

. . . .

"What's the word on those party boys, McKegstand?"

McGee shrugged. "I found two of the guys you and Ziva questioned, but neither of them remember her. Or you."

"Big surprise there," Tony scoffed. "Those guys were so burned out they could barely remember their own names. So we got nothing, nowhere on the threats out on Ziva." He rolled his eyes. "Figures."

"Metro PD is tracking all narcotics activity in Congress Heights and the adjoining neighborhoods. Pentworth turned up nothing, but the activity there has died down since we arrested Keyman. Same with Quantico; we have no activity on base since Hazelbaker was murdered."

"Looks like we're narrowing the field of play," Tony mused. "Don't let 'em give-and-go, McFullback."

"Tony, I don't even know what that means. And what are _you_ doing to help in this case?"

"Working with Abby on filing the forensics with JAG. She found all kids of stuff on Hazelbaker's clothes, so we're tracing his whereabouts for forty-eight hours before he died."

"Did anyone roll Timmons yet?"

"No, he holed up with his lawyer and won't speak to us until after the weapons charges are filed with Metro."

Tim nodded and looked back at his flashing screen. "Damn," he muttered. "I was hoping we could squeeze him for more information."

Tony shook his head. The threats on Ziva had him spooked.

"Godwin still sedated?"

Tim nodded but didn't look up. "'Nother twenty-four hours. Ziva smashed him up pretty good. They had to do two surgeries at once."

"Nice. Did you see her hand? It's black and the size of a burger I ate once in college." He held both hands up and arched his fingers as if holding an invisible volleyball. "Like this."

Tim didn't bite. "She smashed his face against the table, Tony. She didn't even break a nail."

"Yeah, but the table—"

Abby buzzed both of them on the speakerphone. "Hey you guys," she greeted sunnily. "C'mon down to Labby and check out what I found."

. . . .

The elevator opened with a hiss.

"What'd'ya got, Abbs?" Tony asked, smirking.

She wheeled on him but didn't stop typing. "No!" She barked. "You may _not_."

The smirk faded, he cleared his throat.

Tim shuffled nervously. "Um, what were the results, Abby?"

"Well, Private Hazelbaker's filthy clothes painted a very pretty picture of where he'd been all day."

She pulled up a map of DC on the plasma screen.

"They found him at St. Elizabeth's, so that part was easy. But there was pollen and particulate matter on his back and shoulders that came from waaaay up in Columbia Heights. _What was he doing up there? _you ask?" She turned back to the computer terminal. "Probably selling drugs at Cardozo High School. Two reports were filed with Metro about suspicious activities just off-campus. With the pollen index being so high…and the days are getting shorter, so the trees are thinking about shedding their leaves…he probably stood with his back to a tree and handed off a few ounces of pot like the bad boy in some 1980s teen movie. Also, Marvin Gaye is a Cardozo alum."

"Ok," Tony nodded. "What else, Abbs?"

"I found soil in his boots that pinged at Rock Creek Park." She rolled her eyes. "I mean, where else do bad guys congregate?"

Tony grew impatient. "What about the GSR test, Abby?"

"Oh, that?" She batted her eyelashes innocently. "He was covered in it. Close-range shot."

"What about Timmons?" Tim jumped in. "Did we find residue on his hand?"

"Actually…" She glanced at each of them, eyes narrowed, mouth down at the corners. "Yes, and it was a match. He's being charged tomorrow and arraigned next week."

Tim and Tony both released held breaths. "Thank God," Tony gushed. "We caught a bad guy. Now can you help us figure out how Timmons knew Ziva?"

Abby shook her head. "I took all the particulates from his clothes I could find, but nothing matched any of Ziva's locations. Trace evidence is out. We'll just have to wait til we can talk to him, I guess. Or Godwin."

"That could be days," Tim argued. "What are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

. . . .

The season was waning but the primroses were flourishing. Ziva didn't water them much, she just tied the overhead branches when summer rains threatened to wash away the topsoil. She was clearing away the early yellowing leaves when Gibbs and Sara got home.

"Mary, Mary quite contrary," he called across the lawn. Sara, perched on his hip, gave her a shy wave.

He was next to her when she stood and she jumped at the close contact. Sara patted her on the arm.

"S'ok, Zeeba. Jus'us."

"I know, _Shaifeleh_. How was school?"

She shrugged and looked away. "Coming home see you."

"You came home early to see me? I'm honored. Can you help me pick the weeds? I'd like to make the flowerbeds look nice."

"Ok," she agreed eagerly. "Down please, Daddy."

Gibbs lowered her to sit on the grass next to Ziva. He dragged over a bucket for the discarded weeds and handed her a gardening fork.

"All set?"

She nodded, already pulling.

He looked at Ziva, who was pink-cheeked and smudgy with dirt. "Dr. Goldman wants to meet you."

She froze. "Why?"

"Sara speaks very highly of you. She wants to get to know you a little bit."

"I'll think about it," she muttered, low and dangerous.

"That's all I'm asking you to do," he whispered.

Sara gasped, scooted back and waved her hands. "Daddy!" She wailed. "I got my dress dirty."

"It's ok. We'll wash it later."

She eyed him warily. "Ok," she agreed vaguely, but did not remain her weeding.

Ziva nudged him with her shoulder. "I am seeing my own therapist, Gibbs."

"Dr. Goldman isn't going to shrink you, she just wants to understand your relationship."

She guffawed. "Our _relationship!_ Gibbs, she is five years old. We read stories and play in the backyard."

He lowered his voice. "You and I both know there's more to it than that." He brushed his thumb over the burn scars on her arm. She jerked away and picked at a stinging nettle with short, choppy movements.

"I will not answer any questions," she spat defiantly. "I do not have to. I can support Sara, but I am not talking about…_anything_." She ripped the nettle out of the ground and threw it angrily into the bucket.

"I do want you to talk to me," he said just as lowly. "Maybe later."

_"Later_," Sara echoed. She'd taken to repeating other's words, not because they had any particular meaning, but to experiment with sound.

"Later," Gibbs repeated back to her, and she smiled a little at him.

"Later what, Daddy?"

"Later Ziva and I are going to have a talk."

Sara nodded solemnly in understanding. "After bedtime," she agreed. She had no qualms with the adults having another life after she went to bed, as long as no one was reading stories or eating ice cream.

"Yeah, sweet pea. After your bedtime. But that's a long time away. How about we think about lunch for now?"

"A treat-lunch?" She asked sweetly, and tugged his arm into her own.

. . . .

Sara did not get her treat lunch, so when Abby, Tony, and Tim arrived after dinner they offered to walk her down to the ice cream parlor for a kid-sized cone. He agreed, of course, so they packed her into the stroller with her bunny and a sip-cup of cold water and set off. Ziva got up to join them, but Gibbs held her arm.

"You're staying," he commanded.

She yanked once at her arm, but gave up. "Ok," she agreed softly.

Anxiety washed over her once the caravan turned the corner. With no Sara there were no distractions, no need circumnavigate unsavory, unsayable things. Gibbs directed her toward the basement, where he poured a jar of bourbon almost to the rim.

"I know you'll need this," he offered quietly.

She sipped without wincing.

"What happened in that cell, Ziver?"

She choked and dipped her head.

"I'm not talking about the report," he replied quickly. "That's formalized bullshit. I want to know what they did to you and why you are having nightmares and panic attacks and knocking out suspects."

"What do you think they did, Gibbs? I'm a woman and a Jew. They tortured me." She was panting. One tear crept down her cheek. He didn't offer any comfort.

"They beat me, burned me, tore out my teeth. Tore off my clothes." She faded out and he nudged her hand. She looked at him but didn't drink.

"How many of them?"

She hunched one shoulder. "I do not know. Sometimes they came after they'd knocked me out. Or after a beating, when my eyes were swollen shut. Three, for sure. Maybe. Or four. But it could have been ten. They all smelled the same. They all had rough hands."

He would definitely need an antacid tonight. "How many times?"

Another tear made a break for it. "Every day. More than once." she managed, but her voice caught.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He whispered. "I would've helped you. Or tried, anyway."

"I made a choice," she said quietly. "I did not think I had the right to your sympathy. Not after what you did to get me out of there."

He laid one hand on her back. She flinched, but slightly.

"Ziva, you're my family. You killed your own brother to save my life."

"And now we're even!" She cried. The bourbon spilled across the workbench. She glared at the empty jar and he pulled her close.

"This isn't a contest. No one owes anyone anything. Not anymore. Can you trust me to help you?"

"Yes," she pouted. More tears broke loose. Her shoulders slumped and she leaned hard into him.

Gibbs took a breath. "I am sorry that those men hurt you, Ziver. I never would've left you on that tarmac if I knew that was going to happen."

She sniffed and buried her head against his shoulder the way Sara would have. "I thought you said never apologize?"

"I'm sorry for what you went through." He pitched his tone to make his voice rumble in his chest. She was huddled there, hands tucked under her chin.

Footsteps pounded upstairs. The stroller bumped over the threshold and into the foyer. Abby's voice reverberated through the ductwork. She was going to take a sticky and satisfied Sara directly upstairs for a bath.

"You guys down there?" Tony shouted from the top of the stairs.

"Yeah," Gibbs called back. "Be up in a minute."

Ziva cried for several more minutes. He rubbed stiff circles on her back, chafing the skin under her thin t-shirt, her upper arms, stroking her hair. Finally she calmed herself, but didn't pull away.

"You gonna be ok?" He muttered against her ear.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Can I just stay here for a minute?"

Overhead, Tim's sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor. He tripped with an _oof_ over the edge of the area rug.

"Take all the time you need," he said just as quietly. "Your family can wait upstairs."


	28. UnWelcome

__**Wow, 28 chapters and still going strong. Who knew it would be like this? Thank you, as always. And be safe out there, please. Love and Love, Mecha.**

_I knew a girl, she told me_

_ 'you don't want to know what they've done to me'._

_ When she was done crying she just cracked a joke,_

_ and she has a smile for every thunderstorm._

_ -Chris Pureka, "Unwelcome."_

The cool, dewless morning foretold of an early fall. Gibbs tightened the laces on his running shoes and stepped into the hallway, where the light was dimmer than his bedroom.

"Daddy?" Sara stage-whispered.

He pushed open her door. With east-facing windows, her room took on the yellow-grey dawn before his. She was sprawled in the blankets, clutching one of the animals Jackson had carved for her. Gibbs tried to remember which one he'd sent her to bed with.

"Why are you awake, sweet pea?" He bent and nuzzled her neck, still warm with sleep.

"Your shoes clomping," she said lightly. He had a tendency to stumble when he first woke; his knees were at their angriest before sunup.

"Want to go for a jog with me?"

"And Zeeba," she amended.

He kissed her cheek. "And Ziva."

As if summoned, she appeared in the doorway, dressed to run and blinking sleepily. She smiled at Sara and bid Gibbs a quiet _good morning._

"Did you ever get to sleep last night?" He asked. While she hadn't woken him with her nightmares, he'd heard her pacing the floor in the wee hours.

She glanced at Sara, then back to him. He figured that meant either _no _or _barely_, though she didn't look terribly sleep-deprived in the morning gloom.

"You ready for a little outing, _n'sicha_?"

Sara held out her arms. "Yeh," she agreed. "But I don't want seeing a bad man."

Ziva froze; Gibbs paused with his hand on the doorframe.

"You won't, sweet pea. All the bad men are in jail."

She looked at each of them nervously. "Ok," she mused blandly, and put her thumb in her mouth. Gibbs' gut tossed hard once, then settled.

"Let us go," Ziva announced, and pulled Sara's jacket snug across her scrawny chest.

_ . . . ._

Edward Godwin slumped in his hospital bed. The bruises on his face were in full Technicolor but the rest of him was yellowed with addiction and illness. Stained with betadine, rheumy-eyed and hollow, he brought one brittle hand to his stitched forehead.

Tony wrinkled his nose in distaste. "You put a hit on my colleague, Godwin?"

"What do you mean?" His attempt at a demand fell flat. He let his hand fall to his lap.

"I mean I arrested Timmons last week and he threatened my partner. The same one who broke your ignorant skull."

Tim stepped in, fearing Tony's confrontational demeanor would shut Godwin down.

"What he meant to say is that conspiring to murder a federal agent is yet another felony in your file. We're prepared to arrest you for it right now. If you cop to it and give us names and addresses, we'll make a deal."

Godwin's bleary eyes swept from Tim to Tony and back. "The hell do I care if I do more time? Damn Jew bitch broke my face."

Tony barely kept himself from throttling him. "Mr. Godwin," he spat, teeth clenched, "if you do not give us the names of your guys on the outside I will personally make sure this this is _not_ your last visit to a prison ward." He leaned in close, ignored the smell of decaying human tissue that emanated from him, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "You think I can't hurt you?"

Godwin shrank back, curling his spine against the pillows. "A'ight," he conceded. "But you damn feebies got the five-o all over Southeast. Probably spooked 'em all out. Don't come around me if you can't find anyone."

Tony jabbed his hand in the pocket of his sport coat and produced a notepad and pen. "Write them down," he ordered. "And I'll spare you the ass-kicking you so deserve."

. . . .

Gibbs wondered when Sara's patience would run its course. After the abuse she'd suffered, the indignities of surgery and a dozen doctor visits, and long hours in therapy, he hesitated to subject her to more exams. They were necessary, though, as her general health had been neglected during her fifteen-month stint in foster care. Her teeth was one of those neglected things, so he'd scheduled an appointment with a dentist who came highly recommended by Julie at HSC. Their slot was at eleven but he was in no mood to rush.

He drew the carseat's five-point harness over her chest and sighed inwardly; she was still far too skinny. Instead of weekly visits, the nutritionist had him phone in her stats each week. She had yet to break twenty pounds and the doctors were hinting at a feeding tube.

"Where we goin' again, Daddy?"

"Dr. Graham is a dentist. He's going to clean and count your teeth and make sure you don't have cavities."

She didn't even ask if it would hurt. "Ok," she agreed as usual, and walked a little wooden cow across the buckle.

. . . .

Dr. Graham and the hygienist were gentle and patient. Sara behaved beautifully, had no cavities, and was rewarded with a trip to the bookstore to choose a few new picture books.

His phone rang while Sara debated the merits of _Caps For Sale_ versus _Uptown_.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

Tim sounded out of breath. "Boss, Godwin gave us four names we've been all over Southeast. We have nothing; no one knows anything, no one's seen anything, and nobody knows anybody."

His gut tossed again. "And? Anything from Abby?"

"No, but we're headed over to the police precinct now; we put BOLOs out for the tri-state. I hope we get a hit on something soon."

He wanted to snarl, threaten, and demand answers, but his little girl was staring at him with the most puzzled face. _It's ok_, he mouthed, but she was not appeased.

"Keep looking, McGee. You'd better turn up something." He kept his tone light and even.

Tim wasn't fooled. "We're working on it, Boss. If we don't get anything in the next twenty-four hours we're sending state patrol out."

He hung up. Sara's face darkened.

"Where Zeeba?" She asked.

He scooped her out of the little chair. "She had an appointment, but she'll be home by the time you get there. Did you decide?"

She handed him both books. He slid her onto his right forearm and reached for his wallet.

"Where Zeeba?" She demanded. Her features were taught, eyes roving. "Wanna seeing her."

"Ok, we're going home now."

"Ok," she drawled, but closed her fist around his collar.

He paid and swept out of the bookstore. Sara's spine stiffened as he bounced her on his hip.

"Ow, Daddy," she complained quietly.

"Sorry, sweet pea, but I know how anxious you are to be home."

"Zeeba," she sighed, and pushed her thumb in her mouth.

. . . .

He didn't bother to call as he drove, and Ziva was home when he got there, curled on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. Her glock was on the mantle, out of view of one little girl.

"Zeeba," Sara sighed, and nearly threw herself into her arms.

"_Shaifeleh_, how was the dentist? Do you have holes in your teeth?"

"Fine," Sara breathed. "No. Did you see a bad man?"

Gibbs nearly blew his top. "Where are you getting this, Sara? Why do you think there are bad men around? We told you they're all in jail."

She stared at him, mouth open, and burst into tears. Ziva gathered her close and rocked her, shushing quietly.

"You didn't have to do that," she hissed. "She's been nervous since I moved in. I'm thinking I should go."

"_No!_" Sara cried. "No going! Please!" She started into a fresh wave of tears and Gibbs scrubbed at his face guiltily.

"You're not going anywhere, David. And Sara, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I feel bad when you're nervous like this."

He crouched down and waited to speak until she looked in his eyes. "I'll protect you, baby girl. Ok? Trust me to do that."

She nodded, seawater eyes bright with tears. He held out his arms and she sagged against his chest, fatigued.

"We'll read your new books and then it's naptime."

She nodded and didn't look up.

"You, too." He nodded at Ziva. "I can see how exhausted you are. I know you didn't sleep."

She shrugged. "I have gone without sleep before."

"Get upstairs and lie down."

Sara's eyes were already closed by the time he made it up the stairs. He laid her in bed and pried the cow out of her hand, placing it with the others on the bedside table. Kissing her head, then her cheek, he crept out.

The guestroom door was open. Ziva was facedown, sprawled diagonally across the mattress.

"The guys couldn't find anything. Abby is still running reports. Hopefully we'll have a hit by tomorrow morning, or they're sending state patrols out." he reported.

She didn't look at him. "They didn't find anything because there is no threat," she countered. Her voice was muffled by the quilt.

"Godwin admitted to the conspiracy charge. There is a very real threat out there, Ziva, and you need to recognize that."

She still didn't raise her head. "What part of _Mossad Assassin_ are you forgetting right now, Gibbs?"

He slumped. "I almost lost you once, Ziver. I can't do it again." He let a moment of silence pass between them, then prodded. "How was therapy?"

Still no eye contact. "It is hard, Gibbs. It is very difficult to talk about being a victim. I'm trained to interrogate, to kill, even. But I have never been trained in how to properly express what it is like to be beaten and gang-raped."

His stomach stopped its tossing and clenched hard. His tongue went dry, eyes hot. He couldn't keep the roughness out of his voice.

"No one has, David."

She cast one eye at him. "I'll be more careful, Gibbs," she relented, and looked at her gun, laid high on the dresser.

"Rest," he ordered, and swung the door closed behind him.

. . . .

He checked in with Abby, who ran her mouth a mile a minute about nothing relevant, and then with Tony, who all but threw his phone threw the windshield of the Charger when Gibbs told him about Ziva's difficult session. He hung up , feeling disheartened and a little anxious, and an hour later Sara's scream nearly shattered the baby monitor. He threw down his diamond file and raced up both flights of stairs, heart pounding hard in his chest. Ziva met him in the hallway and they burst together through her bedroom door.

There was nothing; the afternoon light dappled the walls, the curtains swung gently above the air conditioning vent. But Sara was still caught in her nightmare, back arched, arms tense, fists curled at her chest. Gibbs stroked her hair and called her name.

"It's ok, sweet pea. It's Daddy and Ziva and you're fine."

She turned towards his voice but didn't open her eyes. He stroked her wet cheek. Ziva ran a hand through her wild curls.

"It's ok," he cooed again. "Wake up now."

She did then, and he was reminded of all the times she woke up in the hospital, eyes wild, hair dark on the pillows. She gasped once and moaned, trying to calm herself.

"Can I pick you up now?" He asked gingerly.

She reached up and he complied. Ziva laid her hand on Sara's back.

"_N'sicha,_ that was a terrible dream. Do you want to tell us about it?"

"I don't want seeing a bad man," she repeated, and laid her cheek on Gibbs' shoulder.

"You will not see any bad men," Ziva promised. "Not ever again. Daddy is going to take good care of you."


	29. Don't Lose Yourself

__**Please pardon the long wait. This chapter wrote itself once, and then I discovered there were two stories happening at once, so I had to take the whole thing apart and start over. The second (unrelated) story is in the works; I'll try to post it soon. Thank you again for all your kindness! Love and love and love, Mecha.**

_In the flickering light we were laughing._

_Necessity conquers fear._

_Don't lose yourself; _

_don't let yourself be lost._

_ -Laura Viers, "Don't Lose Yourself."_

Sara didn't know a lot of things. She didn't know her numbers too well; seven turned into one when she blinked, three into eight. She didn't know her letters, either. It was a struggle to remember that there were two _A_s in her name, not three. She didn't know what day came after Wednesday or how to button buttons. But she did know that there was a bad feeling in her belly again, and it had nothing to do with the long scar that went all the way down.

Daddy looked at that scar a lot. After bathtime and before pjs he would put some cold cream on his finger and run it down the whole long thing, even the puckery part around her bellybutton. Then came pyjamas and then the brace. She hated that thing. It was big and ugly. It didn't even hide very well under her dresses. Daddy always promised that she could stay with him forever, but she worried that one night he would put that thing on and say _this is too ugly. you need to go away _and then Ms. Susan would come and take her to another house. Or worse, jail with Mr. Godwin.

Daddy was touching the brace now. He lifted her hips, brought the wide part around and laid it across her belly, then handed her the straps.

"Here, sweet pea," he said. "You do it."

Sara had no idea what he was talking about. Do what?

He brought each of her hands to his, passing the hook-and-loop fastener between them.

"Like this," he coached, and guided her hands into fastening the corset low and snug.

She stared up at him. Why was he doing that? Maybe he didn't want to touch her anymore.

He pulled on her arms, relying on Sara to stiffen her back. Now she was sitting on the soft carpet in only pyjama bottoms.

Daddy touched her chin, which meant _look at me_.

"Let's do this together, ok?" He stayed looking at her for a long time and she stared back.

He rolled the leg-parts of her brace around their hinges and laid her thigh inside the cuff.

"You do it," he coached again, and pointed at the buckle and strap that would hold it closed around her leg. She fastened it using only her thumb and forefinger.

"Good," Daddy praised. "Now the other one. Not too tight."

She repeated the motion on the other side and he smiled.

"Nice job, sweet pea," he said, and yanked her pyjama top over her head before she could respond. He guided her arms through the sleeves and grabbed both wrists—he could now, the cast was gone—and tipped her back onto the floor. She laid there and stared at him again.

"C'mon," he prodded. "You can sit up by yourself. Remember how they taught you at school?"

Sara laid there for a minute, gathering herself. What was Daddy trying to do? This was different than the usual after-bath stuff.

"Sit up, Sar. Sit up by yourself. I know you can."

Ziva's footsteps entered the room and that was all the incentive she needed. Throwing her left arm across her body, she rolled, bent her knees, and used her strong right arm to propel herself upwards. The back of her right leg rolled across the brace cuff and onto the floor. Her left leg followed and she sat, hips down, knees out, arms loose in her lap. She looked at both of them, triumphant.

Ziva's face lit up. "_N'sicha_ you have gotten so strong. Soon you will be able to jog with me in the morning without your stroller."

Daddy laughed at that. "Sure you can keep up, David?"

Sara wasn't sure why sometimes he called Ziva by different names. That funny feeling happened in her belly at the mention of running. She felt herself fade, and two big shadows appeared in the corners of her eyes. She was tipping suddenly, tipping and fading. Daddy's rough hands yanked her back up.

"Whoa, topsy. No falling on the hard floor."

Her eyes wouldn't look at him. An ache started under her brace and worked its way up to her throat.

"Sara?" Daddy called. "Look at me."

She made herself focus on his blue eyes, wide above his white t-shirt. He was frowning, but it was a worry-frown, not a mad-frown.

"M'ok," she heard her mouth say. "M'ok. Zeeba? No running."

Ziva had moved across the room. Now she came back.

"_Shaifeleh_," she said quietly, "I run every day. You can stay with Daddy if you don't want to come with me."

"No, you," she tried again. Her words got mixed up so easily. "You staying home. S'too dark."

Ziva nodded. "Ok, then I will stay home until it gets light outside. Is that what you mean?"

Sara nodded. No, it wasn't quite what she meant, but it worked for now. Ziva picked her up. Sara wrapped her arms around her neck and traced the scars there—long, thin lines at her nape and shoulders. She knew they were from the bad men with their belts. Had Ziva been a foster kid?

Daddy pulled her back.

"C'mon, kiddo. It's time for bed. Kiss for Ziva?"

She brushed her lips against Ziva's cheek and got the same in return.

"Goodnight, Zeeba."

"Goodnight, _Shaifeleh_."

Ziva stepped out and pulled the door closed. Daddy sat in the rocker. He rooted around in the stack for a book to read while she gathered her courage.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, sweet pea?" He was still sliding books around.

"Maybe Zeeba being a foster kid?"

He stopped and turned to face her. His eyebrows were up. "Why do you say that?"

Sara swallowed with a click. "She has long marks from hitting."

Daddy sighed like he was very tired. "Ziva was not a foster kid," he explained gently. "But she used to do very dangerous work. And one time some bad guys captured her and hurt her very badly. That's how she got those scars."

"Are thems in jail?"

He decided truth was best. "No, sweet pea. There was a bad fight and those men died."

"Good," she blurted. "I hope they get dead a lot." She put her thumb in her mouth and laid her head against his chest. He finally decided on _Olivia_ and opened the book to read.

"No," she said around her hand and pushed the book down. "No reading tonight."

"Do you want me to just hold you for a little bit?" He laid his cheek on the top of her nodding head. She was drifting off already; he could hear the wisp of her eyelashes against his shirt.

He waited ten short minutes before laying her gently in bed and pulling the covers up. She jerked partially awake and muttered at him.

"You hold Zeeba, too, Daddy. Ok?"

"Ok," he agreed. "I'll do that."

He kissed her cheek tenderly and left the room, sliding the door almost shut behind him. Ziva ambushed him in the hallway, furious. Apparently she'd eavesdropped.

"Why did you tell her that?" She hissed. "It is not her concern. She is a _child_, Gibbs. Can you not let her just _be?" _

She whipped away from him and was down the stairs in a flash.

He followed, puffing his chest. "I was going to tell you everything, David. She knows something happened to you. Why would you ask me to lie?"

Ziva kept on going, rushing through the living room and down to the basement with him hot on her heels. It wasn't until she was pinned between him and the workbench that she turned.

"It is not _fair_," she spat. "Has she not had enough of her innocence stripped away?"

He exhaled in a rush and gave them a minute to calm down. When he spoke again he kept his voice soft.

"Do you know what she asked me to do?"

She looked at him and bit her lower lip. "No," she replied quietly.

"She asked me to hold you."

Ziva shook her head as if trying to clear it.

"She understands, Ziver. She knows what you've been through, how you feel. And she wants to make it better for you."

The front door slammed and they jumped. Tony banged down the stairs, smiling.

"Hey, Boss. Hey, Zee-vah." He ignored their stricken faces. "We nabbed a few nasties that were on your case."

He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and produced two three-by-five photos. "Dwayne Marchellus and Rudy Keppler. Both booked on possession with intent to distribute and conspiring to kill a federal agent."

Ziva studied each photo and vaguely recognized each man. They'd questioned them earlier in the month about Godwin and Sara. She laid them both on the workbench.

"So it's fine now," she stated as fact. "There is no threat any longer." She turned to Gibbs. "So I shall go home."

"No you shall not," he countered easily.

Tony shrugged in agreement. "Why would you want to leave? The food is abundant and free." He smirked at her and she growled back.

"Because this is impinging upon my human rights. I am an adult and trained in self-defense."

Gibbs shifted away, hands loose at his sides. "You should stay," he maintained. "You're a huge help with Sara."

She sagged at the mention of her name. Tony stepped closer to her and discretely draped an arm around her hip.

"Ok," she conceded. "I'll stay until tomorrow. Then I'm going home."

Gibbs and Tony shared a furtive look over her head.

"Ok, then." Tony clapped his hands once. Ziva startled again at the sound. "I'm starving. This case is a real pain in the ass. Who wants pizza?"

. . . .

Ziva stepped out of the guest bedroom, hair pulled back, running shoes in hand. She reached for the banister, stepping wide to avoid a creaky floorboard, and stopped when a small voice called from the next room.

"Zeeba?"

She laid her shoes down and entered Sara's room. She was awake, but barely.

"You going?" She asked, mouth slack with sleep.

"I am," she confirmed. "But it will be a short run. I will be fine. Daddy is still sleeping and Tony is downstairs on the couch. You are safe, _n'sicha_."

Her eyes drifted but she fought back. "No, you. S'dark."

"The sun is coming up." Ziva pointed to the window, where the light was reddening with sunrise. "See?"

Sara hummed and drifted off again.

Ziva made her escape and stood, shivering, on the front porch. The air was cool. Goosebumps rose on her arms and neck. She cursed her forgotten long-sleeve and took off at a brisk walk to warm up her muscles. The sun crept upward, and by the time she was jogging it was glaring on car hoods and corner mailboxes. She increased her pace, and rounded the corner, stepping off the sidewalk and into the wide avenue.

. . . .

"Daddy?"

Gibbs scrambled out of bed, tripping on the quilt.

Sara was sitting up in the blankets, white-faced and wide-eyed.

"Daddy, where Zeeba?"

"She's jogging, sweet pea." He yawned widely and picked her up, headed for the bathroom.

She put both hands on his face and looked at him steadily.

"Go find her, Daddy."

His gut churned. Something in her seawater eyes was making him very, very nervous.

He changed gears and headed down the stairs.

"DiNozzo?"

Tony harrumphed from the couch.

"Get up. Now. We need to find David."

"She's out for a run," he mumbled from beneath a pillow. "And this couch sucks." He opened one eye. Sara's pale little face was enough to get him on his feet.

"What happened?"

Gibbs was already dialing Abby, but she stormed in the front door before the call could even connect.

"Hey, all, I know it's early, but something is hinky…"

He pitched Sara at her. "We're on it, Abbs. Get her dressed. DiNozzo, let's go."

Tony grabbed his keys and ran after Gibbs, slamming the door behind him.

Abby cuddled her close. "Hey, lambykins, I haven't seen you in such a long time. How are you?"

Sara returned the hug. "M'fine. A bad man hurted Zeeba."

Abby felt the floor jolt out from under her. "What do you mean, Sar?"

"He hurted her. He banged her with a stick."

"I'm sure she's fine," she cooed. "I bet you just had a bad dream. Let's get dressed and find some breakfast, ok? Everyone will be home in a minute."

. . . .

Gibbs circled his block, then the next, and began a sweep of the block between his house and the elementary school. There, just beyond the stop sign, was Ziva. She must have grabbed her emergency weapon before she left his house, because she had a man at gunpoint and was standing—both feet planted on his broad back—on another. He pulled over and opened the door. Sirens wailed in the distance, obviously beginning their approach.

He leveled his own sig at the one still standing. He had a meaty, ruddy face and thinning red hair. "On the ground," he commanded.

Tony was already out of the car and approaching the man Ziva held down, cuffs at the ready.

"Ya ok?"

She was panting and pale. Bruises were forming down her right arm, which was cradled against her midsection. She'd been holding them off one-handed.

"I am fine," she warbled, gaze fixed on the man Gibbs was frisking.

Montgomery County PD pulled up, tires screeching on the suburban hot top. Two officers yanked open their doors, guns drawn, but Gibbs waved them off. Both perps were subdued and cuffed.

A young uni dragged the red-haired man upward and into the backseat of the car. Another had to ask Ziva three times to step off the guy she was standing on. There were shoe prints, size seven-and-a-half, pressed into the ample flesh of his back. The officer got him up and Tony could see his face was a mess of blood and mucus.

"C'mon, Zi," Tony coaxed, and wrapped his hand around her shoulders. She flinched hard. He kept his back straight and tone cool in the presence of the officers. "Let's get in the car. LEOs got him."

She wouldn't look at him, but allowed him to slide her piece from her hand. He handed it to Gibbs, who unloaded it quickly and stuffed it in the waistband of his sweats.

"Ziver, we're going home," he ordered gently.

Officer Holgate, as he'd identified himself, stopped them. "We're going to need a statement," he said ineffectually. "She'll have to come down to the Second District Field Service Bureau and—"

Gibbs reached into the car and produced his card from the glove compartment, making sure the rookie saw his federal-issue sig and badge in the console.

"Call my office," he said wearily. "We'll give you a statement within seventy-two hours. I need to take care of my agent."

Tony had been securing Ziva in the backseat of the Charger while they spoke, and now slid into the passenger seat. He turned back to her.

"Ziva, you're ok," he said quietly. "C'mon now, it's ok. You're safe."

Her only response was to hug herself a little tighter and blink once at the floormats.

Gibbs sat in the driver's seat and slammed the door harder than necessary.

"She ain't talking, DiNozzo, so knock it off."

He peeled off down the street towards home.

. . . .

Ducky found Ziva on the couch when he arrived, still in her running clothes. She was hunched over, curled around her right arm, which was mottled red and blue with spreading bruises. Tony was moving fitfully between the couch and the kitchen. A dozen warming cold-packs laid on the coffeetable.

"Hello, Ziva," he greeted warmly. "I heard you had a scuffle this morning. I'm just going to make sure you're all right."

She turned to him and exposed a blackening contusion at the corner of her left eye. He reached out two gentle fingers and probed it. She hissed and pulled away.

"Not broken," he said quietly. "But you'll be swollen shut come high tea."

She still hadn't returned his gaze. Worry bloomed behind his eyes.

"Ziva, please look at me. I need to determine if you have a concussion."

He crouched in front of her, resting the backs of his legs on the coffeetable. He examined her eyes and she looked back flatly.

"Follow the light, please."

He produced a penlight and checked her vision and pupillary response. Both were a bit sluggish, but he was positive she hadn't sustained any serious head trauma.

He palpated her throat and neck for injuries and found another bruise just behind her left ear. Her ribs were a bit tender, but he suspected more bruises lay under her t-shirt. He dare not ask her to remove it. She would most likely panic and he couldn't be sure they'd be able to calm her without pharmaceutical intervention.

"Now let me see your arms, dear."

She held out the left one. No marks.

"Now the right, please, Ziva."

She wouldn't comply.

"Ok, then," he said mildly. "I'm going to reach for your elbow, dear. I'm sure you'll tell me if it hurts."

He tugged her arm forward and she let him, but when he tried to straighten her elbow she tensed and pulled away. Her hand was wrapped in the hem of her t-shirt.

"Ziva," he called, and touched her chin. "I need you to cooperate. I'm trying very hard to keep you out of the hospital, but you're making it very difficult."

She shook her head at the mention of the word _hospital_.

"I am sorry, Ducky," she mumbled. "I feel a bit unfocused."

"Anthony," he called over his shoulder, taking in her pallor and waxy skin. "Why haven't you gotten Ziva any juice? She's clearly hypoglycemic."

Tony jolted up.

"Yes, juice," he agreed, and sprinted for the kitchen.

She gave him a small smile of thanks.

"Now may I see your arm?"

She unwrapped her hand and held it out to him. Her wrist was clearly broken; the ulna and radius buckled over one another. The back of her hand was puffed up like a balloon; Ducky could press it and move the fluid underneath. And her index and middle fingers were swollen and curled.

"Oh dear," he mused. "They thought they could disarm you with a baseball bat, didn't they? I guess no one told them any better. How many times did they hit you?"

She frowned. "Three, perhaps. I was trying to switch hands. Maybe. I do not remember."

He sighed. Tony returned with juice.

"I cannot treat this here. You will require surgical repair for the ulnar and metacarpal fractures. I am sorry, my dear."

Tony stood. "I'll get my keys."

Ziva sipped at the juice while Ducky packed his kit.

"I'll meet you at Bethesda, but I need to speak to Jethro and make a phone call. I'm sure there is a hand specialist who owes me a favor."

She nodded numbly. Tony was wrapping her favorite green fleece around her shoulders, though the outside temperature was nearing seventy degrees. She looked at him questioningly.

"Sometimes it's cold when you get hurt," he explained, smiling gently.

. . . .

Abby had whisked Sara up the stairs the second she'd heard the Charger rumble down the driveway. Sara was furious and had put up a valiant fight, resisting all consolation and attempts at distraction. They'd read stories, built houses and boats of blocks, arranged and rearranged the farm. The entire time Sara had battered her with questions about what happened and if Ziva was ok. When Gibbs got Ziva settled and then joined them in Sara's room, she'd turned the questions on him. Unsatisfied, and growing angrier by the minute, she sat now on the area rug in her funny, tripod way, scowling at them and clutching a chartreuse chicken in each knobby hand.

"I want seeing Zeeba," she demanded.

Gibbs checked out the window and found Tony's car gone. Ducky knocked tentatively on the doorframe.

"Ducky," Sara said calmly. "Where Zeeba?"

He sat next to her. "I'm afraid Ziva got hurt this morning. Anthony—"

"Tony," Gibbs explained. She didn't know his given name.

"Tony," Ducky corrected, "had to take her to the hospital."

Sara nodded knowingly and shot undisguised glares at Gibbs and Abby.

"A bad man banged her with a stick."

Ducky had no excuses. "Yes, he hit her on the arm and she has sustained an injury. Her arm is broken." He drew his index finger across Sara's forearm, an inch from her wrist. "Here," he said gently. He took her palm and flattened it in her own. "And here," he drew another line across her palm. "And here," he drew a third line across her index and middle fingers, over the second knuckle.

"The doctor fixing her," Sara said gravely.

"Yes," he agreed. "The doctors will fix her and then she will need to rest. Can you help your father and Tony take care of Ziva when she comes home?"

"Yes," she said again. Her cupids-bow mouth was a hard line, eyes drawn inward and stormy-green. She turned abruptly to Gibbs.

"Why you didn't telling me?" She asked.

He scooped her up. She juggled her chickens expertly and wrapped both arms around his neck.

"Because I didn't know," he lied mildly. "Ducky had to check her out first. And I wanted to protect you, because that's my job."

She put both hands on his face again and looked deep into his eyes. "Well," she started, and pursed her mouth. "From now on you telling me. Ok, Daddy?"

He nodded, feeling vaguely embarrassed at the lecture coming from his own child.

"Ok," he said with a sharp nod. "From now on I will tell you if something happens."

Abby couldn't hold herself back. "Honesty is the _best_ policy, Gibbs."

He glared down at her, but couldn't hold the serious expression.

"Lunch," he declared. "And then we'll call Tony for an update. Ok, sweet pea?"

"Ok, Daddy," she agreed sternly. "and you owing me a treat."


	30. Peace Tonight

**Thank you all for all the follow and reviews-not just for this story, but for my new one, "Treading Water." You all are so fabulous and kind and gentle and welcoming and, and and... As for general housekeeping: I have relatives coming in from overseas and the holiday of Passover, with all its cleaning and cooking (and drinking) will soon be upon us. I will not give up so easily, though; updates will not stop, they will slow. **

**Thank you and thank you and thank you for your love. And reviews. And cookies. Always cookies. Because there's more to life than being skinny.**

**And Moshe-"Forsaken?" *brandishes sword* NEVER!**

**. . . .**

_When things get messy we'll just tidy up the room._

_ We'll be no stranger to that dustpan and a broom._

_ Indigo Girls, "Peace Tonight."_

Ziva's room was on the orthopedic floor and from the hallway windows, seven stories above Rockville Pike. Stone Ridge School's belltower was backlit in orange and purple with the setting sun. Gibbs held Sara high on his shoulder so she could see.

She nodded appreciatively. "Seeing it, Daddy. Maybe I will going there."

"Maybe," he shrugged. His mind wandered a bit; what kind of educational opportunities were there for children like her? Legally, she'd have to be enrolled by next fall. He vowed not to worry about it until the coming January.

Ducky stepped out of Ziva's room, smiling gently and shaking his head. "The surgery went swimmingly," he announced, "but the anaesthetic has not been kind to poor Ziva. Be gentle."

Gibbs stepped in, Sara on his hip. Tony was hovering near the bed, armed with a box of tissues, a cool compress, and a pink emesis basin. Ziva was pale, but a glow on her cheeks indicated fever. She opened her eyes but said nothing.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted softly.

"Hey," he returned, but couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. "How you doing?"

He grimaced at the sight of her arm; splinted fingertips-to-shoulder, wrapped in yards upon yards of compression bandages, and elevated on two pillows. Ziva looked only vaguely uncomfortable. The wetness of her eyes indicated the drugs were doing their job.

The question had been directed at her, but Tony answered for both of them. "We're doing ok. The nurses said nausea should pass within another few hours."

As if to demonstrate, Ziva bucked slightly, rolled her head in Tony's direction, and heaved yellow bile into the basin. He calmly waited for her to finish before wiping her face with the compress and shifting her shoulders back onto the pillow.

She turned back to Gibbs and Sara, who looked positively stricken.

"Hi," she rasped, taking in Sara's nervous look. "It's ok, _Shaifeleh_. The medicine is making me a little _cholleh_."

Sara nodded and chewed her bottom lip.

Ziva fidgeted in the bed a little. Her clumsiness told everyone that the painkillers were working very, very well.

"Here," she finally managed. "Put her here."

Gibbs hesitated.

"_Here_," she repeated. "Next…" She patted the bed.

Gibbs lowered Sara to the bed on Ziva's good side. Despite the IVs, she wrapped her arm around her shoulders and drew her close, craning her neck so that her mouth was next to Sara's ear.

"You warned me, _shaifeleh_. I should have listened to you. I am sorry."

Sara stared, puzzled. "S'ok, Zeeba. I didn't want you getting hurt."

"I know," she agreed. "I will be ok."

Her stomach heaved again and she closed her eyes. Sara squeaked. Tony held the basin out, but she waved him off.

"I am fine," she ordered, but faltered and amended, "this time."

Gibbs turned to Ducky, who watched the whole exchange from a chair in the corner. "Why is she running a fever?"

Ducky raised one shoulder. "Stress. She has put herself through a lot these weeks and this is how her body is dealing with it. It'll come down within twenty-four hours. Trust me, Jethro."

"That's good," Tony cut in. "Because they're releasing her tomorrow. Late morning, the doc said."

Gibbs had a hard time believing that. Ziva looked quite ill.

Ducky laid a hand on his shoulder. "She will be fine. You know where to find me if she isn't."

. . . .

Tony grabbed the quilt and snapped it, laying it over Ziva's legs, tucking the corner between the mattress and boxspring. Dust motes flew in the shaft of midday sunlight that filtered through the blinds. It was just after lunchtime and she'd had enough. The doctors had poked and prodded and manipulated her (very tender) arm before sending her home and into the care of her team. Her family, she thought idly, and downed the last few sips of orange mango juice she'd been handed along with her medication.

Abby and Sara had greeted her at the front door, showering her with affection—pressing kisses to her still-too-warm cheek, fawning over her sling and soft cast, rubbing the scabs on her good arm gently; she'd taken a header on the street and had plenty of road rash to prove it. Gibbs waved them off, sensing her growing discomfort, and he and Tony shepherded her up to the guest room, which had been cleaned and prepped for her arrival.

She loosened the sling and tugged an extra pillow under her arm. Tony pulled the strap up over her head and laid it on the bedside table. She didn't need it if she was resting.

"You need a nap," he observed. Indeed, dark circles ringed her eyes.

"You, too," she countered. He'd spent the night in the hospital with her, even though she'd tried to send him home at midnight, two, three, and five in the morning.

He lay down next to her, stretching out over the covers. "I'll just rest my eyes for a minute," he muttered.

She giggled, an obvious side effect of the Vicodin. "Ok, Tony. Just for a minute." She tried to roll her eyes, but the lids were dragged down. She slid farther into the pillows.

The door creaked and Gibbs poked his head in. She stared back at him stupidly. He smirked.

"How're the meds treating you?"

"Fine," she answered vacantly. She blinked lazily. His smirked deepened.

"_Fine, _huh?"

He approached the bed and slapped Tony's leg. "Shoes off," he ordered.

Tony opened one eye, toed off his sneakers, and let them drop to the floor.

Gibbs came around to Ziva's side and gave her a gentle hug. "I'm glad you're ok," he murmured into her hair. "And you gave that fat guy a beatdown."

"Uh huh," she agreed, eyes closed. He doubted she registered what he'd said.

"Shout if you need me," he whispered, and kissed her cheek before stepping out, pulling the door only partly closed behind him.

Abby and Sara were playing on the floor. A chicken rode a horse across the edge of the coffee table.

"Everything ok?" Abby worried.

"_Everything ok?_" Sara echoed, not bothering to look up. She was happier with Ziva back at home.

"Fine," he urged. "They're fine. Exhausted, though. Let 'em sleep." He looked from her to Sara. "Did she finish her lunch?"

"Yes," Sara supplied. "I finishing everything. So now ice cream."

He thought for a minute of denying her request; she'd gotten plenty of junk food yesterday. He'd allowed chips, soda, and sweets to assuage his own guilt for not listening to her. But it was a beautiful day, and she'd been cooped up inside as they waited for Tony and Ziva to get home.

"Ok," he conceded. "Let's walk down to Prantl's and get an ice cream. Abbs, you wanna go?"

"Absolutely!" she cheered.

He reached down with one arm and heaved her off the floor. Abby was lanky but not heavy, and he could yank her easily to her feet.

Sara watched Abby's long limbs fly. "Whoa, Daddy," she said lowly.

Abby picked her up. "It's ok, lambykins. Big Sis Abby is pretty tough. And Daddy wouldn't hurt me." She nuzzled close. "Or you."

. . . .

Finished with her cone and the noise of the ice cream shop, Sara pulled down the stroller's long sun visor and went to sleep. Abby pushed and Gibbs walked alongside. Four long blocks lay between Prantl's and home and they walked slowly, enjoying the day and each other's company.

They paused at a crossing and Abby glanced around. "Where did you find Ziva?"

Gibbs angled his head west of where they stood. "Over by the school." He squinted towards his own house, cocked his head, and sighed. An unmarked car sat at the foot of his driveway.

"We have company," he groused, and peered through the plastic window at Sara. She slept on, mouth ringed with ice cream detritus, hands sticky and loose in her lap.

Abby tensed. "Who? If they woke Tony and Ziva…"

"We'll deal," he assured her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Detectives Nachshon and Morales stood at the end of his walk.

"Got a minute?" Morales called. "We need to talk."

His heart grew heavy. "Yeah," he retorted, and didn't bother to hide his irritation. "Have a seat in the living room. Abby and I need to get her into bed."

Luckily, they hadn't rung the bell, so Tony and Ziva slept on, undisturbed. He checked on them and closed the door fully, hoping to keep them asleep all day, if need be. Abby lifted Sara from his arms. She startled, clicked her tongue, and drifted off again. Abby nodded toward the stairs.

"Go," she whispered. "I've got her."

He filled glasses of water for all three of them and returned to the living room.

"Yeah?"

Morales and Nachshon shared a weighted glance. "Agent Gibbs, two security specialists—"

"Prison guards," he cut in.

Nachshon nodded once. "Yes. Two guards found Shawn Keyman dead in his cell this morning."

He exhaled sharply and leaned back into the couch cushions. Anger and relief swept over him in waves.

"They are still investigating, but it seems like Keyman and his cellmate got into a fight late in the evening. No one knew about it, apparently, so he wasn't found until roll call at six am."

"Bull," he said calmly. "The whole block knew about it. But who's gonna rat on a guy who kills a baby raper?"

Morales nodded and downed half her water in one go. "We assure you, though, the charges against Edward Godwin still stand. The case against him will continue."

Gibbs felt his ire grow. "Unless someone offs his ass, too," he growled.

Neither one of them twitched. They were used to this. "We prefer not to think that way, Agent Gibbs. Once the lawyers give us the go-ahead, we'd like to start recording Sara's testimony."

"How long will that be?"

"Jury selection happens in two weeks. Once that's finished then we'll know more. The prosecuting attourney has your contact information. She should be in touch with you soon."

Nachshon rubbed at her hands. "Thank you for your patience in this investigation," she said evenly.

Gibbs snorted. "Don't thank me. Thank my daughter."

They rose to leave, and Morales hung back. "Social Services called about you," she said quietly. "They wanted my input as a detective on Sara's case. I told them there is no one better suited to adopt her. I signed off as a reference for you."

He was stunned; he'd been little but a defensive ass to them. "Thank you," he said just as softly, and ran a hand through his hair. "I…just…thanks."

She smiled and let herself out.

Tony slumped down the stairs, squinting in the sun and running his hands through his hair. "Timeizit?" He grumbled.

"Almost three," Gibbs replied. "Feeling better?"

Tony yawned widely. "Yeah. Got any soda? Feel a little depleted."

He followed Gibbs into the kitchen, where a can of cola was produced and handed over.

"Keyman's dead," he blurted.

Tony choked. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. Killed in a fight late last night. Guards didn't find him til morning."

He pulled a face. "Gross. And serves him right. Wait till Ziva finds out. She'll be thrilled."

Gibbs grabbed his arm. "Don't let her be like that."

Tony snorted. "We'll I'll _try_, Boss," he quipped sarcastically. "But I have a little trouble controlling her emotions."

"Fine," he relented. "But don't let Sara see her happy about it. She doesn't need to celebrate vigilante justice. I told her that Saleem and his guys were dead and she understood a little too well."

Tony nodded. "She's too smart, that kid. But I'll tell Zi what you said."

"She up yet?"

"No way. She hates painkillers. Advil puts her out for an afternoon. What do you think the Vicodin is going to do to her?"

Gibbs smirked and nodded. "I know. But get her up before too long and make her eat."

"Roger that, Boss." Tony mock-saluted and looked out the window over the sink. "Think we can hire Probie to cut that grass again?"

Gibbs was headed for the basement. "I owe him too much already, DiNozzo. You want steak tonight? Fire up that mower."


	31. Hearts and Bones

**Thanks again, everyone. You're making this an amazing, rewarding experience and I can't send you enough love. You're all great and fun. And great fun! Love love love, The Mecha.**

_These events may have had some effect_

_ on the man with the girl by his side._

_ -Paul Simon, "Hearts and Bones."_

Ziva was where Tony had left her; curled on her left side in Gibbs' guest bed, broken arm elevated on a pillow. He crept in carefully and sat on the bed next to her.

"Hey, Sweet Cheeks," he whispered, and rubbed her cheek with his knuckles. The bruise at her eye was swollen and shiny; she'd need more painkillers before bed.

"Hey," he said a little louder. She had yet to move. "C'mon, Ninja, you have to get up for a little while. Gibbs wants you to eat."

She stirred, drew a deep breath, and winced. The overall ache in her bones couldn't be dulled with narcotics.

Tony moved his hand from her cheek to her head. She was too warm still, but Ducky promised that unless it spiked higher than one-oh-one or came with nausea and vomiting, she was fine.

"Sara wants to see you," he finally said, and that did it. Her eyes blinked open and she grabbed her right wrist with her left hand, pulling it close to her body.

"Mmup," she croaked, wide-eyed and groggy. She sat up, swaying.

"Let's get something in your stomach." Tony came around and used her good hand to lever her up. "Toast, maybe? Or some applesauce?" He laid the strap of her sling over her head and helped her settle her arm into it, elbow-first. She hissed in pain and he stepped back, nervous that he'd hurt her. She shook her head.

"Ok," he said quietly, not willing to irritate her further.

"Ok," she echoed, still dopey with sleep and Vicodin.

He lead her down the stairs and into the dining room. The sun was going down. It cast wide shafts of gold across the neighbor's yard. The old lead glass windows magnified the light and Ziva winced.

Gibbs came in with a plate of toast and more orange-mango juice. He scoffed at Tony.

"Pull the shades, DiNozzo," he ordered, and gave Ziva a tender kiss on the cheek. "How ya doing?"

"I am fine," she retorted, but the flush on her cheeks and watery eyes told another story.

"Sure you are," he scoffed, and she scowled at him. "Where is Sara?" She demanded, and gingerly bit into her dinner.

"Abby took her out for the afternoon. They went shopping for some fall clothes for Sara. It's supposed to drop into the fifties tonight." Ziva came from a relatively stable climate; any major temperature shift fascinated her, still.

"Oh," she mustered. "I only have my green jacket here."

"I know. I told Abby to pick up a scarf and gloves for you."

She snorted into her juice. "Gibbs it is not _that_ cold." A thin smile crossed her face, but faded quickly. She went white, then green.

"DiNozzo, get a bucket," Gibbs yelled. Ziva waved him off.

"I am fine," she repeated, but her voice was thick and tears welled in her eyes; they were not tears of sadness or anger, but the wetness of imminent vomiting. "I feel as though the painkillers are making me nauseated. Perhaps I should stop taking them."

Tony returned with a blue plastic mixing bowl. Gibbs croched next to her and laid a hand on her knee. Tony passed him the bowl.

"Ok," Gibbs agreed. He was not willing to talk her out of it, and shot Tony a look that meant _and don't you do it either_.

Ziva took a few breaths. "May I have ibuprofen next time, please? I do not like this. I think it is the result of the narcotics."

"Sure," he agreed again. "Maybe you should take another bite or two."

She blanched. "I do not think that is a good idea."

Gibbs shot Tony a worried glance and he shrugged back. He'd been told not to worry, so he wasn't worrying. He also knew that prescription painkillers were notoriously difficult. They might kill the pain, as the name implied, but they often came with horrible side effects.

"It has passed," Ziva said after a long, quiet minute. "But I should lie down."

Tony readied to help her back up the stairs, but she resisted.

"No. On the couch, please."

He helped her get comfortable and retrieved an ice pack for under her broken hand. Her fingertips, where they poked out of the compression wraps, were swollen.

"Hey," Gibbs started casually. He'd removed her plate and glass and crouched before her again. "You should know that Keyman was killed last night."

An indescribable look crossed her face. Part sadness, part predation, she looked at him silently for a second and spat, "Good!"

"David," he began tersely, "please do not treat this as a victory. I can't let my five-year-old think that revenge is the way to go."

The drugs made her brave. "This from the man that sniped the drug dealer who killed his wife and child?"

Tony, sucked in a breath. Gibbs was stunned silent. She registered their shock and what she'd said and her heart sank.

"I am sorry," she said thickly. "I did not mean…I…" The tears spilled over and she threw her good hand over her face. I am sorry," she repeated. "I am sorry." It became a mantra quickly. "I am sorry. I am sorry. _I am sorry._"

Gibbs reached for the hand she'd hidden behind and she flinched hard at the sudden contact.

"It's ok," he whispered. "It's ok. Come on now, I know that wasn't what you meant."

"I am sorry," she reiterated. Her eyes were cast downward and he knew she wasn't apologizing to him any more.

"Tony," he said quietly. "Call Ducky, please."

Tony grabbed his phone and stepped back into the kitchen, hands shaking, eyes wet.

Ducky's quiet reassurances were calming. Ziva wasn't in any danger, she wasn't particularly ill, and nothing would compromise her healing arm in the long run. He'd gently refused to drive out to Gibbs' house, and by the time Tony hung up and returned to the living room, the little crisis had passed. Ziva was upright on the couch and Gibbs had his arm around her shoulders and a pillow on his lap for her poor arm. He dutifully reported what Ducky said, and Gibbs nodded.

"She's ok," he promised, looking down at her head, which rested on his chest.

Tony felt a little pang of jealousy; why couldn't she let _him_ comfort her? Gibbs noticed, and nodded paternally.

The front door creaked open and the stroller appeared. Sara smiled up at them from under a pile of packages.

"Hi," she said quietly, tempering herself at the scene in front of her. "Daddy?" She worried.

"It's ok, sweet pea. Ziva isn't feeling well. The medicine that was supposed to help her arm is making her pretty sick."

Sara's eyes widened. "Oh," she replied uncertainly.

Abby laid the shopping bags aside and pulled Sara into her arms. "It's ok, little bug." She turned to Gibbs and Tony. "Right?"

"Right," they chorused confidently.

Tony held out his arms for Sara. "C'mere, little bird. Let's sit with Ziva while Abby puts all the new stuff away."

"Ok," she said quietly. She looked wall-eyed at Ziva, who hadn't bothered to lift her head from Gibbs' shoulder.

"How was your afternoon?" Tony asked her quietly.

Sara put her finger to her lips then jerked her thumb at the other end of the couch. Sure enough, Ziva's eyes were closed and she was melting into the cushions.

Gibbs smirked and wiggled the arm she lay on. "Not yet, David. You need some Advil before we let you go."

She lifted her head and nodded, noticing Sara for the first time. "_Shaifeleh_," she smiled. "How was your shopping trip?"

"I got pants," she said seriously. She preferred toddler legwarmers to leggings under her dresses; they made for trips to the bathroom.

"Well, you will not be wearing your brace forever, so that is a good thing." Ziva countered easily. "Soon you will be running around like a _vildeh chayeh_."

"M'not _vild_." Sara was mildly affronted at the assumption.

"You will run like a gazelle all over the neighborhood." Ziva teased back. "I will never be able to catch you again."

Sara caught on to the game. "No, you can't catching me. Ll'be faster than you and you will get so tired."

Ziva took the tablets Abby held out with two tiny sips of water. "I am so tired now, _n'sicha_. I must go to bed."

Sara leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "_Laila tov_," she said softly.

Together, Ziva and Gibbs trundled up the stairs, bound for the room that was quickly becoming hers.

Tony turned back to Sara. "So what'd'ya get me?"

"A shaving thing," she said seriously, and brushed her hand on his stubbly cheek.

. . . .

A yelp startled Tony and he woke with a jolt. The room was dark; crickets could be heard through the leaky window frame. He'd fallen asleep on Ziva's bed, over the covers, after he'd delivered a second round of medication at ten. She slept on, motionless.

The yelp turned into a small cry this time, and, hearing no footsteps in the hallway, he pitched himself out of bed.

Sara was awake and sitting up, crying softly.

"Bad dream, little bug?" He wondered out loud.

She sniffed at him and another fat tear slid down her cheek.

He lifted her out of bed and she snuggled up, drawing her knees higher on his ribs.

"Let's go to Ziva."

Stepping with two long strides across the hall, remembering to skip the squeaky board and deposited Sara on the wide bed. Ziva stirred but didn't wake. Sara scooted herself close to her.

"Here," she whispered and patted the blankets next to her.

He shifted onto the mattress carefully. Sara was already sliding off to sleep; she didn't notice that he drew the quilt over her, but not himself.

"Laila tov, Tony," she breathed, and anchored her thumb in her mouth.

. . . .

Gibbs woke him the next morning, stomping down the stairs in his sweats and running shoes.

"What're you doing down here, DiNozzo?" He groused good-naturedly.

"You didn't hear Sara at two-thirty? She had a nightmare. I put her in bed with Zi and came down here. Got tired of little feet in my ribs."

Gibbs was partly irritated that he'd put her in bed with them—he didn't like what it implied—but found Tony's grumbling to be pretty funny.

"Did she get ya in the junk?"

"No," he reported, yawning. "I got out of there before that could happen."

Gibbs nodded. He'd been relegated to the couch any time Kelly was sick. He caught one foot in the groin when she was three—chicken pox—and decided that two redheads was all one bed could handle.

"Run with me," he ordered, and Tony nodded and pulled on the socks he'd dropped next to the couch.

It was a cold, dewless morning; the forecast called for rain by lunchtime.

"How are you holding up?" Gibbs asked quietly. His breath puffed before him.

"Ok," Tony huffed. "I'm worried about her, but I feel like it's going to be ok."

"That's good," he mused. "You'll have to stick around today. I have to take Sara to HSC at nine and I don't think Ziva should be alone."

Tony grunted. "We need to get her statement to Vance and Montgomery PD."

"Yeah, Tim will be over this afternoon to help you guys with that. He said it can be done in an email."

"Are they going to want her to testify against these goons?"

"Dunno." They swept back around to Gibbs' block and slowed to a fast walk. "I think she'll be called as a witness against Godwin. They're starting jury selection in two weeks."

"Has the media gotten wind of any of this? I mean, an abused kid, NCIS involvement, dealers out after Ziva…this is a hot story."

"No kidding, DiNozzo. They don't know and they'd better not, ever. It's bad enough I got two police departments, social services, and a shrink in my business; I don't need cameras and reporters sticking their mics in my window."

Tony stretched his arms over his head. "Yeah, but Sara would charm the hell out of 'em, Boss."

He smirked. "Or tell them to stuff it."

. . . .

Gibbs knelt before Sara. Between them was a black aluminum walking frame. With guidance from Adjoa and Julie, he guided her arms into the troughs and over the handles—vertical ones, so she could lean hard on it—and locked both of his hands over hers.

Julie had both hands around her hips. "Ready, Sar?"

Sara nodded, chewing her lip.

Julie counted to three. "Push up!" She ordered gently, and for the first time in six weeks, Sara stood on her own two feet.

It was hard for Gibbs to keep the tears out of his eyes. "You look so strong, sweet pea," he gushed. "I'm so proud!"

She was too busy concentrating to acknowledge him. Her knees were wobbling, and she jerked her spine to stay upright.

Julie was cheering her on. "You're doing it, Sara. How long can you stay up?"

Sara let out a cry of frustration and her left knee collapsed. Gibbs unlaced their hands and allowed her to sit back on the mat.

"Great job," he praised. "I can't believe it; you're so tough."

She frowned at him. "Thanks, Daddy. Again?"

So they started the whole thing again; this time she held on tight enough to not need his hands over hers.

Adjoa was tremendously pleased. "I love your independence, Sara. You're demonstrating excellent determination right now."

Sara preened a bit. "Thanks," she whispered, and leaned her head forward so she could touch noses with Gibbs. She slipped suddenly; her weaker left leg buckled harder this time, and bumped her face on the walker. Bursting into tears of surprise and shame, she held her arms out for Gibbs. He took her, sighing in relief.

Julie and Adjoa apologized immediately; _they should've caught her faster, they should've expected a tumble_, but he smiled gently and promised he didn't blame them. He was a bit sad at the progress Sara was making. He thought of her early weeks with him as a babyhood of sorts; she needed him for almost everything—food, mobility, medicine, sleep—and he loved how necessary it made him feel. The more independent she became, the less she would look to him to fulfill her basic needs. His heart ached a bit in anticipation of the coming weeks and Sara's increasing physical strength. Now, though, crying softly and drooling down the collar of his polo, he was secretly glad she'd reached for him first to comfort her.

"Let me see, baby," he soothed. She pulled back to let him look at her face.

"You got a fat lip?"

She gave him a watery smile—there wasn't even a red mark.

"Want to do it again?"

"No," she said quietly and cast a withering look at the walker.

"How about we play at the water table?" Adjoa offered.

Sara nodded; she loved the water table. It was almost as good as the swing. Gibbs tied the waterproof apron over her clothes and she set about her play, pouring water between her fingers and into a little bucket. Adjoa encouraged her with object labeling and resistance for her fine motor skills.

Dr. Goldman appeared at his elbow. "Great progress," she praised. "I was watching through the window."

"Thanks," he replied quietly.

"Susan McNamyre called."

His heart picked up. "And?"

"And the all-call for Sara's relatives came and went. No takers. Her label went from 'pending' to 'legally free.' The lawyer can submit the paperwork to CFSA anytime you're ready."

"Wow," he said dumbly. "Don't I have to wait another six weeks?"

"Technically," she drawled. "But this way the courts can be ready when the limbo period is up."

"Holy shit," he sighed, and looked at her sideways. "Sorry."

She rolled her eyes, which meant she heard worse, often.

He walked across the room and sat carefully on a pile of folded gym mats. "I've thought this whole time that some great-uncle in Tennessee or Wyoming was going to suddenly pipe up, and she'd be gone. I've had nightmares about it."

She nodded. "Of course. The biggest threat has been losing her. Now it's gone and you carry on with your life together."

His eyes grew hot and wet and then he was crying, heaving big, sloppy sobs, his head in his hands.

"Daddy?" Sara called, voice high and scared. "Daddy?"

He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "It's ok, sweet pea." He couldn't keep the tears out of his voice. "I'm fine. Keep playing."

"That's right," Dr. Goldman said quietly. "Take this time for yourself. It's a huge moment."

He smiled tearfully, "And you had to tell me here in the gym?"

"Yes," she said simply. "I wanted you to hear that and see what great work you've done in such a short time. I'm proud to vouch for you. Susan called me to be a reference."

"You're the second one I've gotten in two days."

"Listen, Gibbs, you're a grumpy, grouchy old Jarhead. You love your old ways and you love your old suffering, but you've shed a lot of that stuff to become an incredible father. You've made as much progress as she has in this month and a half."

His tears dried up. "Sometimes I forget that you're a head-shrinker."

She laughed at that. "I don't get a lot of cases that succeed. I have former clients who are dead, in jail, addicted; it's the price we all pay for crappy childhoods. We still have a lot of work to do, but I'd like to close this chapter and call it a happy ending, ok?"

"Ok," he agreed mildly, and reached for his baby girl.


	32. If He Tries Anything

**Thanks, everyone, as usual. Do you ever get tired of being thanks for being so awesome? For being MADE OF AWESOME? Cause you are, and I think it's pretty radical. Special thanks to Chemmie for the volley of messages that made this chapter.**

***Repost. Typical Mecha-late to the party and tripping over the guests.**

_I'll be watching you from the wings._

_ I will come to your rescue if he tries anything._

_ "If He Tries Anything," Ani DiFranco_

Gibbs shoved the stroller through the front door with one hand and used the other to balance a sleeping Sara on his shoulder. Tony poked his head in from the living room.

"Hey, Boss. How'd it go?"

"She stood up by herself today," he replied quietly. Sara's saliva was trailing a sticky line down the back of his arm.

Tony's face split into a smile. "That's great!

Gibbs cuddled her closer and the drool spread. "Ziva asleep?"

"Yeah, rough night. The ibuprofen only took the edge off the pain. She woke up every time it wore off. Woke me, too."

Upstairs, he bypassed Sara's room altogether and laid her next to Ziva, then used a spare pillow as a bolster so that if she rolled she wouldn't tumble off the bed. He kissed both dark heads and left.

Tony had his shoes on and keys in his hand. "I'm headed to the Yard. Abby has something for me."

"Bull," he remarked not unkindly. "You're here. I'm headed to meet the lawyer; Sara became legally free this morning. I can petition to adopt."

Tony's mouth fell open. "That's awesome, Boss! Are you so pumped?"

"Cautiously."

He froze, eyes wide. "This deserves steak. Let's get everyone over here tonight for dinner. Ducky, Vance, Palmer…everyone."

Gibbs slapped the back of his head. "Let the judge sign those papers first, then we'll celebrate. My meeting's in half an hour. Stay here. If either of them budge, call me. Or give them ice cream."

"I'll go with the ice cream first," Tony promised, and Gibbs left, Sara's drool drying on his shirt.

. . . .

It was pain in Ziva's arm that woke her first; a thrumming under the skin where the surgeon had attached titanium plates to her broken bones with inch-long screws. The throbbing moved up her arm in stages; in her elbow, then her bicep, then her shoulder. Warmth spread across her mouth and cheek and it tickled; she risked a little more pain, raised her good hand where it cradled her broken one to brush at her face. She jerked her eyes open when it met warm skin that wasn't her own.

Sara pulled her own hand back from where she laid it over Ziva's mouth. "Zeeba?"

"What're you doing, _shaifeleh_?"

"Seeing for feeber."

"I do not have a fever anymore." She did feel a little better; her arm hurt, but the headache was gone and her stomach was no longer clenching and unclenching in time with her pulse.

"You were sick," Sara declared with authority.

"It was the medicine, _n'sicha_. I stopped taking it and now I feel fine."

A funny, quizzical look crossed her face. "Zeeba? Where is you mommy?"

Ziva sighed sadly. "She died many years ago."

"She is dead," Sara declared flatly.

"Yes," she confirmed, heavy-hearted.

"My mommy is dead, too." Sara clarified. "She got sick and she dying in her room. I watching TV."

"I bet you miss her very much." Ziva felt a little numb; she'd never seen Sara so blank, so frank about anything.

"I do miss her," she confirmed gravely. "I'm missing her but I love Daddy. And you, Zeeba. You know how the bad men hurt girls."

The headache returned instantly, blooming between her eyes and spreading across her skull and down her neck.

"_Shaifeleh, _how do you think I know that?" Her words were thick on her tongue, unmanageable.

"Because you do. I knowing it. They taked my clothes off and then Mr. Shawn put…inside…" She tailed off, eyes on the drawn shades. Sunlight seeped through but she didn't seem to notice. "And Mr. Godwin was so mad at me. M'so stupid."

The room tilted sideways but Ziva fought back, sitting up in the quilts and reaching for her sling. "You are not stupid, Sara."

"M' stupid when Mr. Godwin tooking off his belt. I don't even know my letters."

Ziva looped the strap over her head and tightened it. Her shoulder stopped gnawing at her nerves. "Not knowing your alphabet does not make you stupid. What Mr. Godwin and Mr. Shawn did was wrong, Sara. It is wrong to treat anyone the way they treated you." Acid crept up her throat and she had to close her eyes.

"Mr. Godwin hitting me. He hitting me all the time. M'doing all the work but him's hitting me hard wif him's belt." She was slipping back into the cadence of when she'd first arrived, mixing her pronouns and verb tenses, losing her prosody.

Ziva reached for her. "It's ok, _shaifeleh_. He was wrong to be angry at you. He was wrong to make you feel bad."

Sara scooted away. "Don't touching me," she muttered. Her eyes were flat grey.

"Sara," she said soothingly. "I will never hurt you. Can you come back a little closer? I would like to hold you."

"You can't," she said harshly. "You can't touching me. It's too much."

Ziva sighed. "I do not know what that means, _shaifeleh_."

Sara shook her head. "You don't throwing me away." She drew a sharp breath and screamed high and loud-a reed-thin sound that made gooseflesh appear on Ziva's arms and legs. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. She tossed her head, waved her hands.

Ziva thought she might throw up. "Tony? Can you come up here?"

He thundered up the stairs and arrived still holding the television remote. "What?"

"I…I.." she paused to swallow back bile. "I think Sara is having a flashback. Help me make sure she does not hurt herself."

He approached the bed slowly and peeled back the quilt that Sara had tangled around her legs. She started and yelped, scooting away from him until the back of her head thumped hard against the headboard.

"Little bug? Hey. You're alright."

She stared at him. Or _through_ him, rather, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

"Sara?" He tried again. "You ok there, kiddo?"

"No-no," she uttered thinly, and began to rock herself. Ziva reached out two fingers and brushed her arm gently.

"_Shaifeleh_? _N'sicha_? Can you look at me, please?"

Sara turned her head slowly and blinked at the sunlight seeping through the blinds. "What?" She asked quietly, eyes unfocused.

"What happened? You went far away from me."

"I went away," she echoed, whispering.

Tony exhaled quietly. Ziva swallowed again; the nausea was quelling. "Tell me about that, please. Tell me so I can make sure they do not hurt you again."

Sara's gaze didn't stray from the window. "Mr. Godwin tooking off his belt. Him's hitting my legs and my face. M'so stupid."

"You are not stupid. Mr. Godwin is stupid for hitting a little girl like you."

Sara nodded, eyes wide and flat grey. "Him is in jail. F'effer."

Tony brushed her curls away from her face. "Yes he is, little bug. He is in jail forever. You don't need to worry about him any more."

She slid back across the mattress and laid her head on Ziva's leg. "I wanna staying here," she whispered.

Ziva ran a hand over her head. "You can," she said quietly. "Daddy wants you to stay here until you are all grown up. Then you will move away and start your own family."

"No, I'll staying with Daddy f'effer. Only Daddy."

"Ok," she amended quickly. "You can stay with your daddy forever. He will be very happy to hear that."

"You need a medicine for your arm, Zeeba."

"I do, but we can stay here for a minute if you need to. My arm is not going anywhere without me."

Sara nodded, her cheek warm against Ziva's leg. "Tony? Maybe you helping Zeeba?"

He smiled. "Sure, bug. You want something?"

"Juice?"

"Juice and arm medicine, coming right up." He kissed them each and left.

Sara's thumb found it's way into her mouth and she sucked with small, soft noises. Ziva stroked her hair and counted the seconds until Tony returned with ibuprofen.

He returned with Gibbs, who looked worriedly over Sara. He brushed his hands down her back and legs, knocked Ziva's hand aside and probed her scalp. "You ok, sweet pea?"

"She is fine, Gibbs," Ziva said. "We did not let her get hurt."

"The hell happened?" He wondered softly.

"I think she had a flashback. She was...lost."

He peered down into Sara's face. "Can I pick you up?"

She rolled herself upright and held out her arms. "Ok," she muttered around her thumb. Gibbs could feel her heart beating hard and fast against his own chest.

"Want to tell me what happened?"

She tightened her grip on his neck.

"Ok. I'll just hold you for a little while then." He swayed on his feet and paced a little. Sara sank into a stupor, drained and pale.

"Someone is done for the day," Tony remarked, and took Ziva's empty juice glass.

"I think so," Gibbs agreed, and shifted her higher on his shoulder. "Sweet pea? You want to lie down in you own bed?"

"No," she replied, but made no effort to lift her head from his shoulder. "Stories with Zeeba."

"How about you and I pick a few books then? You can read with Ziva while Tony and I make some dinner. I invited McGee and Abby to eat with us tonight. Does that sound like fun?"

"Yeah," she sighed, and straightened up. "Farmer book, Owl book, Bugs, and Whales. Please," she requested, and held out her arms for Tony.

Gibbs shifted her over. "Be right back. And be careful, sweet pea. Ziva's arm is sore."

"I know." Tony sat her back in the bed. Gibbs retrieved picture books from her room and returned with several extras._" Keep her busy_," he whispered in Ziva's ear, and he and Tony headed down to prepare the steaks and chicken.

Ziva sat up a little higher and Sara settled herself against her. "You must turn the pages, _Shaifeleh_. I cannot do two things at once."

"Whales first," Sara agreed, and reclined, mindful of her arm. Ziva kissed her hair and began to read.

. . . .

"What happened up there, DiNozzo?" Gibbs threw the chopped onion into the bowl of marinade and stirred. Tony added ground ginger and cumid.

"I don't know. Ziva asked me to come up and Sara was already lost in her own head. Kinda scary, Boss."

"I'll call Dr. Goldman. Maybe she'll want to see her."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Tony agreed, and started chopping lettuce for salad. "Ziva seemed ok, though, huh?"

"A little shaken, but ok. Hell, I might be a little shaken, too."

Tony snorted. "You're idea of 'shaken' is raising two eyebrows, not one."

"Give me that mustard," Gibbs ordered.

"How's the meeting go?"

"Good. Paperwork is filed. Susan will call with a court date." He stirred teriyaki into the mix and poured it over the platter of raw steaks, sealed it with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator.

"That's it? No new bottle of Maker's Mark? No clanking of mason jars?"

Gibbs shrugged. "I'm done drinking for now."

"But I'm not," Tony whined.

"You are while you're in my house. Sasparilla, DiNozzo. Or water."

"Ziva will be mad that she can't have a glass of wine," Tony pouted.

"Well then she'll have to be mad until the doctor pulls those pins out of her hand. Alcohol slows bone growth."

Abby banged in the front door went immediately to the freezer. "Let's have those peppers I made. You can put them right on the grill."

Gibbs kissed her cheek. "Sure, Abbs. Good day?"

She beamed at him. "I got not one, but _two_ new scanners today." She held out her hands, fingers spread wide. "They have super-high resolution which will be great for fingerprints and trace. Maybe I'll finally solve that British slasher case."

"What British slasher case?"

"Jack the Ripper," Tony supplied. "She thinks Scotland Yard did a shoddy job with the evidence."

"It was eighteen eight-eight, Abbs. They didn't have your super-high-res whatevers."

"So? I can't take on a little extracurricular activity?"

"Bowl with your nuns," Gibbs replied blithely, and laid aside the sliced mushrooms he'd been slicing.

She munched on a few stray cucumber slices. "Are Sara and Ziva asleep?"

"Story time. Sara had a…long afternoon."

"Oh." She wrung her hands. "She ok?"

"Yeah, but check on them."

She took the stairs three at a time.

"Hey," she said quietly, pushing open the guest room door. "How's story hour?"

"There's a tree and a moon and an owl and a boy," Sara explained.

_"Owl Moon_ again, huh?"

Ziva smiled. "It's a story about being brave."

Abby's smile faded a little. "Well if anyone here know's about resilience…"

Sara leaned protectively into Ziva's chest. "Abby? Zeeba hurting in her arm."

Abby smoothed a hand down her back. "You want a Vicodin?" She offered.

"No, thank you. They make me quite nauseous. I'm taking ibuprofen instead." Abby's hand on her back was light and cool, soothing.

"Ibuprofen? Ziva, you just had major surgery! There's more hardware than bone below you elbow! You should take something more than over the counter stuff at this point; intense pain can slow your healing way down!"

Ziva tried not to bristle. "I am fine, Abby. There is no need for Vicodin."

"Then I'm getting Ducky to give you T3s. I can tell by the tension in your neck and shoulders that you're still hurting."

Ziva knew her argument was over. "Ok," she conceded, and hung her head so Abby could knead her neck with deft fingers. She almost moaned aloud.

"Abby?" Sara asked. "_I_ told you Zeeba arm."

"Yes, you did tell me. But Ziva has her back all curled up because she's in a lot of pain. You did the same thing when you got hurt, that's why I made that special chair for you."

Ziva laid the book aside. "I am right here," she sulked. "You do not need to talk about me like I am not."

Sara ignored her. "Zeeba needing the special chair! C'mon, Abby, let's go make it for her."

Abby picked her up off Ziva's lap and continued the charade. "That's a great idea, Lamby-kins. Let's go get it all ready and then Tony can help her get downstairs."

Ziva couldn't keep herself from playing along. "Do you think one of you could send Tony upstairs? I would like to talk to him."

"Tony! _Tony_!" Sara shouted down the stairs. "Zeeba needing you!" He voice faded as Abby turned the corner into the living room.

Tony appeared in seconds, wiping his hands on a tea towel he carried up with him. "You rang?"

"Apparently I am supposed to go downstairs once my special chair is prepared. We're part of some elaborate scheme." She quirked an eyebrow at him.

He kissed her mouth. "Well then, we should tend your warior's wounds and get down there."

He lifted the strap over her head and kissed her shoulder, then her collarbone through her thin t-shirt. She held out her arm, wincing only slightly. Tonye unwrapped the long lengths of elastic bandage and peeled away the custom-fit soft cast. Bits of felt padding stuck to her skin, which was tight and shiny, swollen over the injuries. Both incisions were raw and red, though Duck swore nothing was infected. Tony loaded a square of gauze with sterile saline and cleaned everything carefully. Ziva hissed in pain but kept her arm still. He finished quickly, reapplied the splint, and wrapped her arm as the nurse showed him, making sure her index and middle fingertips stuck out of the bandages. Her arm was back to three times its normal size when he finished.

"Ok, let's hit the road," he announced, and drew her up with him.

Sara and Abby had made a nest of the recliner. The rolled up blankets for behind her lower back, laid a pillow on the armrest so she could take off her sling, and draped a soft blanket over it that Ziva could draw around herself if she was cold.

Tony lowered her into it and she sighed. "This is nice, _shaifeleh_. I know now why you wanted to sleep here."

Tim laid his laptop aside—he'd arrived just after the steaks hit the grill—and pushed the button that would help her recline. She smiled, grateful.

"Don't fall asleep, David," Gibbs ordered from the kitchen. "You're eating dinner tonight."

"I will not sleep," she replied, but her eyes slid closed without her knowing.

It felt like only seconds passed before rough hands pulled her up by the shoulders. Her head felt heavy.

"Up, David. You're eating if it means DiNozzo has to spoon-feed you."

"Sara is legally free," Gibbs said suddenly, and pushed the gristle to the edge of his plate. "I petitioned to adopt her this afternoon."

All eating stopped. Tim choked on a piece of pepper. "You submitted the paperwork? You mean this is actually going to happen?"

He is shocked that Tim is the one to put his foot in his mouth. "Yeah, McGee, this is _actually_ going to happen."

"Boss, I didn't mean it that way, I just know how hard these things can be and I didn't want to see anyone get hurt." He took a rushed sip of his water, feeling everyone's eyes on him. "I can't imagine life without Sara," he added lamely, and flushed red.

Gibbs finished eating and stood abruptly, taking his plate to the kitchen. Tim followed.

"I'm really sorry, Boss," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean it that way, I promise."

Gibbs said nothing. He rinsed his plate, then Tim's, and put them in the dishwasher. Reaching far into the narrow pantry between the kitchen and produces a flat cardboard package.

"Here," he said gruffly. "Abby helped me pick it out."

Tim opened it and found a new motherboard for his computer. The fastest processor on the market caught the light over the sink and winked at him. Or so he wanted to think.

He gaped. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs shrugged. "Thought I owed you. Think I owe the rest of them, too, but you've done a lot and asked for nothing."

"You didn't have to do that, really." Tim felt strangely elated, pleased not about the gift, but that his boss wasn't angry with him.

"I wanted to," Gibbs said with finality.

Ducky appeared and Tim busied himself with making him a plate.

"Abigail called me, Jethro. It seems that dear Ziva has stopped taking adequate pain medication."

"She's been taking ibuprofen, maybe some acetaminophen," Gibbs reported.

"Well no wonder she ran a fever for two days; it's probably a pain response. I have some stronger medication here. Tony can give it to her when she's ready for bed."

"Thanks, Duck. Listen, I think Sara had a flashback this afternoon."

"Oh?"

He sighed. "I wasn't here, but Tony said she started panicking and Ziva thought she was going to hurt herself."

"Did she?" Ducky didn't seem particularly alarmed, and that bothered him.

"She called DiNozzo up to help her."

"Did Sara hurt herself?"

Gibbs gave him a hard look of disbelief. "Of course not."

"Well, as hard as it is to watch, a flashback is rarely dangerous. Just assure her that she's safe once she comes around. She may sleep for a bit afterward."

Gibbs suddenly wished for a finger of bourbon. Or maybe he didn't. Ducky was staring at him with an odd half-smile on his face. "She was beat. Crashed on my shoulder for a bit."

Ducky smiled. "While I'm surprised she hasn't had one until today, I don't believe she's in any danger. My only prescription is lots of love, which there is a surplus of in this house. And congratulations for the adoption petition, Jethro. Maybe you see many happy returns on this day."

. . . .

Yet another shriek from Sara's room woke him; it was the third one in as many hours. She'd had night terrors back-to-back, screaming and crying, lashing out with hands and feet when anyone tried to soothe her. He was about to give up on the notion of her sleeping in her own bed and stick her back in with Ziva. Only the threat of re-injuring her arm kept him from giving in.

Tony met him in the hall. "Again?"

"Shut up," he snarled, and grabbed Sara out of her bed. She snuggled close, crying quietly and gripping his shirt.

"Sweet pea, why are you up so much tonight?"

He only response was to grab the short hairs at the back of his neck and howl.

"DiNozzo, get me the sedative with her name on it out of the medicine cabinet."

He hesitated. "You sure you want to do that, Gibbs?"

"No one here can take this anymore; not her, not you, and not David. Get it, or get out."

Tony retrieved the medication and Gibbs administered it with a needless syringe. It took effect quickly and he put her back into bed to find Ziva staring at him from the guestroom doorway.

"It's ok, David. Go back to sleep. Everything is fine."

"That is my fault," she said. "If I was not here she would've never had a flashback. That is why she is so…upset."

Gibbs stared, impassive.

"She asked me about my mother," she continued. "And told me that I knew why bad men hurt girls. She called herself stupid and told me that Keyman raped her and Godwin beat her for trying to watch television. That was when she…mooned out."

"Spaced out," Tony corrected. "That's when Ziva called me up to help her. Sara was fine, though, after a minute."

Gibbs turned his hard gaze on him.

"I mean," he stumbled. "You know the rest, Boss."

"I do," he said tightly. "And David, you're with me tomorrow morning. We're going to see Dr. Goldman. Rack up, I need you up by eight."

Her eyes widened, but she simply nodded. "Yes, Gibbs." She disappeared back into the bedroom and they heard her slide back under the blankets.

Gibbs went back into his own room and yanked on jeans and a NCIS shirt. He pulled his sig from the safe, holstered it, and grabbed his keys.

DiNozzo was still standing vacantly in the hallway.

"Watch her," he ordered, and pointed at Sara's room. "If she gets up, tell her I went to work for an hour and that I'll be home. Put her in with Ziva if she's still tired."

"Where you goin', Boss?"

Gibbs said nothing. Tony heard the Charger roar out of the driveway and down the block.

. . . .

It was a series of white lies that got him into the interview room at Central Detention. He'd flashed his badge, filled out the appropriate forms, and handed over his weapon as was expected. Godwin was lead in by a guard and deposited at the table.

"Who are you?" He demanded weakly, and coughed hard into his fist. He looked jaundiced, weak.

"Doesn't matter," Gibbs replied, low and dangerous. "But I know you. You were Sara Cohen's foster father."

Godwin glanced toward the window.

"Uh-uh," Gibbs condescended. "There's no no one there."

He turned back around. "I ain't saying nothing without my lawyer."

It was easy to lift Godwin out of his chair and slam him against the wall. "Then don't, you rotten bastard. You're just going to listen."

Gibbs drew his emergency piece from the small of his back and planted the barrel against Godwin's forehead. "You listening?"

He nodded, eyes wide.

"Good." He squeezed Godwin's lower jaw, opened his mouth, and jammed the barrel against his molars. "You still listening?"

Godwin sweated, nodded.

"Good. Because you need to know that I don't deal with people who beat little girls,who rape them, who put hits out on people who work only for justice. You following?" He hadn't removed the barrel of his Beretta from Godwin's mouth.

He nodded again.

"I don't need any crack-dealing thugs to bring you down. I can smear your brains all over the walls of your cell without waking your bunkmate. Keep that in mind when the prosecutor asks you about Sara Cohen." He shoved Godwin back into his chair, holstered his weapon and pounded on the glass.

. . . .

Tony was waiting for him with Sara in arms when Gibbs got home. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, and Ziva was curled on the couch, dressed and nibbling on dry toast.

"Here," Tony said tersely, and handed Sara over. She hung limp in his arms, bonless, eyes open and blank. He instantly regretted the sedatives.

"Bunk play, Boss," Tony snapped.

Sure enough, all three of them had not bags, but suitcases under their eyes.

"Appointment's canceled," he announced. Sara stared up at him, mouth slack. "I'll make pancakes and everyone stays in."

Tony rubbed at his hair and Sara grunted softly. Gibbs brushed his mouth over her head. "She ok?"

"She's fine," Tony snapped. "I had to call Ducky, though, because I thought she was going to swallow her own tongue. It's fine; she just has a little cough. I'm ticked, Boss. That was bull giving her those drugs."

"I know," he agreed. He looked sincerely at Tony, who stood scowling, arms crossed. "I didn't do that to torture you, DiNozzo. I only thought it was going to help."

Tony relented. "It's fine. I can handle it. But between her and Ziva, I don't know who to grab first. Who's going to have the first nightmare, who's going to refuse food or meds or a hug. How did you do this before Zi got hurt?"

He smirked. "Dunno. Go to the Yard."

"Huh?"

"Get out of here. Shower, shave, spend a few hours at work. I'm going to feed Sara and put her back down. Ziva might want to go with you."

"I do not want to go," she called from the living room. "I need tea."

"Ok," Tony called back, and started the kettle.

"Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs reached up to rub Sara's back. She eyed him dopily. "M'tired," she mumbled.

"I know, sweet pea. I want you to eat a little, and then you can sleep."

"_WifZeeba_."

He hesitated, then relented. "With Ziva," he promised, and hoped she was too drugged to care if it wasn't the truth.

"_N'you_," she whispered.

"And me," he amended, and cracked an egg into a mixing bowl.


	33. Mrs Potter's Lullaby

**Thanks, as always, and apologies for the delay. I sat down to write and a series of vignettes appeared instead of a chapter of either story. What matter of sorcery was THAT? So maybe you'll want to check it out: it's called "Aveilit" and it's published here. Somewhere. Maybe. Right? I mean...I guess so.**

**But anyway, yous are so much fun-such great people who are so willing to share their stories, their reviews, their time, and their critiques. I hope I'm meeting your expectations; you are making me a better writer and a more generous person.**

**And has anyone seen my friend Moshe? Hasn't checked in lately...**

_There is always one last light to turn out,_

_ one last bell to ring._

_ -Counting Crows, "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby."_

The entrance hallway at HSC was bright with morning sun. Ziva had to squint, even wearing her sunglasses, to make out Dr. Goldman standing in front of them. Another woman was with her, and she reached immediately for Sara.

"Hey, Sar," Dr. Goldman said warmly. "You're going to play with Adjoa first this morning, then you'll come see me. I want to talk to Ziva for a minute."

"Ok," she agreed easily.

"C'mon," Adjoa encouraged, and crouched before the stroller. "I have a new swing for you to try out."

Sara smiled and kicked her new sneakers against the footrest. "I love swings," she declared, and turned awkwardly to smile up at Gibbs.

"I know," he smiled back, and the two of them followed Adjoa into the therapy gym.

Ziva watched them walk away, wiping her sweaty palm on the leg of her jeans.

Dr. Goldman eyed her knowingly. "It's ok," she said quietly. "We'll talk for a minute and then you can join them. I'm not going to shrink you, but Sara waxes poetic about you every session and I wanted to understand who she was talking about. Let's go to my office."

The doctor motioned for Ziva to sit, so she perched at the edge of a chair.

"How's your arm?" She asked congenially.

"Fine," Ziva started, but a sharp eye changed her response. "It's fairly painful," she conceded shyly. I have not broken a bone in many years, and never this badly. I am shocked that it still feels so tender even a full week after surgery."

Dr. Goldman held out her hands, ticking off fingers as she spoke. "Six screws, a plate, two pins. You had a total of five fractures, Ziva, of course it's going to hurt for a while. Then surgery? It'll be a few months before you're back to your old self."

Ziva smiled tightly, feeling stiff and vulnerable.

Dr. Goldman leaned forward and rested her elbows on the file in her lap. "Now," she said firmly. "Tell me why Sara Cohen-Gibbs is so crazy about you."

Ziva blushes, feeling strangely complimented. "I do not know," she said honestly. "I suppose it is because I spend time with her. I read to her, play with her. I like to brush and braid her hair." She glanced down at her sling and blushed a deeper red. "Or I did, anyway."

Dr. Goldman nodded. "Of course. Sara is not a child accustomed to attention or affection. Anyone who makes an effort toward her is going to be special." She dropped the ruse. "But you and I both know that this is different."

Ziva shook her head. "I do not know what you're talking about," she said, but her voice sounds hollow and false, even to her.

The doctor snorted. "Don't even," she said lowly, but there was nothing unkind about her tone. "Agent Gibbs has mentioned to me an incident several years ago. You survived a very violent experience, didn't you?"

She gasped, breathless. "He should not have told you that. I do not wish to speak about that with you. I am seeing a psychiatric professional about it and will continue to do so until it is no longer necessary." She spoke in a rush, warm with embarrassment.

"I understand and respect that, Ziva. So does Gibbs. But the fact of the matter is that Sara understands that _you_ understand what it means to feel vulnerable, victimized. Afraid."

Ziva tensed, trembling a little. "I never told her about my…_experience_ as a prisoner of terrorists. I did not mention it one single time. Her life is not about me, it is about her. She is a little girl who survived a terrible ordeal and now has the opportunity to be raised by a secure, gentle, loving father. It is a gift and she is grateful for it."

Dr. Goldman smiled gently. "She is. You're staying with Gibbs also? For the time being, anyway." She glanced at her broken arm.

Ziva drew herself up. "Yes, but I should not be there. I believe I will go home this evening. Sara is having nightmares and flashbacks that she did not have before I came."

"Physical healing is well underway," Dr. Goldman said easily. "Her pain is easily managed now, so the psychological aspect of her trauma is coming to the forefront. You probably have nothing to do with the flashbacks and nightmares."

She shook her head, vehement. "You did not hear the way she screamed. It was awful. She sounded like an animal."

Dr. Goldman shrugged. "That will happen. She was terribly frightened, and probably reliving some aspect of her trauma. It will be ok. We'll help her move past it."

Ziva was white, furious. "You did not hear it. You did not. How can you say that she will get past something that makes her feel like that?"

The doctor let her forearms fall forward from the elbow, reaching out casually to Ziva, who flinched. "Who are we talking about?" She asked gently.

"Sara," she said tightly, but didn't miss the expression on her face.

Dr. Goldman smiled. "Ziva, don't be afraid to heal with her. And don't be afraid to rely on Gibbs or your teammates; it is perfectly normal to want to be part of a family."

Her shoulders slumped and she was suddenly very tired. "I will try," she said hollowly, wanting only to be out of there. "Are we finished? May I go now to see Sara?"

"Of course." The doctor was still smiling, "I'll take you down to the gym."

When they got there, Sara was harnessed horizontally to the ceiling by long lengths of cable. Arms and legs out, she swung back and forth as though flying like a movie superhero.

"See, Zeeba? See me swinging?" She called, and waved from the forward apex.

Ziva blanched. "You are going very high, _shaifeleh_. Perhaps you should slow down a little."

Gibbs was leaning against the wall, smiling, arms crossed. "She's fine, David."

Adjoa agreed. "That thing is designed to hold grown men. A twenty-five pound kid barely puts a dent in its capabilities. Want to try?"

Ziva balked. "No, thank you," she said firmly. The thought of swinging so high was a little nauseating, considering the pain medication she took earlier on an empty stomach.

"All right, Sar," Adjoa called. "Let's bring it down and show Ziva how you walk."

"Walk?" She asked Gibbs. "She's walking?"

"Sorta," he smirked quietly. "Wait till you see."

Adjoa had taken off Sara's brace to fit her into the harness, and she readied to put it back on when Sara threw her hands out and asked for her.

"Adjie," she said sternly. "M'wanting Zeeba to do it."

Ziva fastened the straps quickly and gently, smoothing her bodysuit and legwarmers so she didn't get pressure sores. Dropping a kiss on her curly head, she moved over so Adjoa could carry her across the room to a waiting walker. She had Sara stretch first, then practice sitting and standing independently. Satisfied that she was ready, Adjoa steadied Sara and instructed her to shift her weight and lift her left leg. They'd done this before; with a look of deep concentration, Sara set her left foot in front of the right one.

Gibbs and Ziva went wild with applause and Sara jumped, then grinned.

"M'doing it," she said confidently. "See?"

"Again," Adjoa prodded. "Take another step. Let's see how far you can go."

Sara looked a little nervous. "Ok," she agreed hesitantly, and began the process over—shifting her weight, lifting her left foot, laying it down.

Ziva crouched a few feet in front of her. "Can you walk to me, _Shaifeleh_? I bet you can. You will run like a gazelle right into me."

Sara smiled. "I will running you _over_, Zeeba._" _She lifted one finger from the walking frame. "Careful," she cautioned, eyebrow raised.

"Please do not hurt my arm," she replied, joking.

Sara frowned down at her feet. "M'tangled," she said softly. "I…help, Adjoa." She'd gone pidgeon-toed.

Adjoa set her straight again. "Ok," she amended. "You're fine. Run to Ziva."

It took seven slow steps to reach her. When she got there, Sara leaned over the crossbar of the walker and touched their noses together.

"I did it," she said softly.

"You are very strong," Ziva agreed. "And I have much _nachas_ for you. Are you proud of yourself?"

In an unexpected shift, she shrugged and looked down at the floor. "M'ok," she said quietly.

Ziva knelt and shifted her face into her line of sight. "You have come a long way," she whispered. "I remember when you had those long pins stuck in you, and your arm was broken, and your collarbone, and you were dizzy all the time, and sick. Now look at you. You are walking and talking and growing so fast. Remember when you could only have juice and soup? Now what do you eat?"

Sara shook her head. "M'not hungry."

"My point is that you have worked very hard and you deserve to be happy. Daddy loves you and I love you. Abby and Tim and Ducky and Tony love you. We are very proud of all your hard work and growing."

Sara leaned in closer and Ziva shifted her carefully into her lap. "Why are you sad, _Shaifeleh_?"

"'Cause I love Daddy," she sighed, and twisted a lock of Ziva's hair around her hand. "Wanna staying with him forever."

"You are worried still that he will get rid of you?"

Sara shrugged again.

"Well it is not true," she said with authority. "Your Daddy is keeping you forever."

"Not throwing me away," Sara confirmed.

Ziva rocked and Gibbs petted both of their hair.

"C'mon," he said quietly. "Let's finish your day and head home. Maybe we should spend a little time outside."

. . . .

With the summer coming to a close, it seemed that most families were settling in for the academic year, shopping for school supplies and rushing through summer reading lists instead of visiting the park. A few young mothers and children were around, enjoying the mild weather that the forecast saw ending in a matter of days. Gibbs needed to find more indoor activities for Sara. Or maybe he'd put the stroller's weather-shield to good use.

Gibbs pushed the stroller, Ziva walked slowly alongside, reaching down occasionally to pat Sara on the head. The paved footpath were narrow, though, so they had to step aside when a woman pushing her toddler in his own jogging stroller passed them going the opposite direction. The baby was a year old, maybe a few months more, and blonde-haired.

Sara sat up to watch them. "That boy is a baby," she declared.

"Yeah, he is," Gibbs agreed.

They walked a little farther and Sara blurted. "I want to get out."

"Ok," he said easily. I can carry you."

"No! I don't want to being carried."

He wondered if perhaps he should've put her down for a nap. Ziva raised her eyebrows at him.

"Well, you gotta make a choice, sweet pea. You either ride in the stroller or I carry you. We left your walker at school and the ground is uneven. You could fall and get hurt."

She made a noise of frustration. "M'not a baby," she growled.

Ziva smirked at him. _See what you made_? She asked silently.

"I know you're not a baby," he said carefully. "You don't need the stroller because you're a baby, you need it because you got hurt and now you're learning to walk all over again. Would you rather use your wheelchair?"

She blanched. "No. Don' like it."

"Me either," he agreed. "I like the stroller because we can jog together."

"No!" She snapped. "No jogging!"

He stopped to come around and look at her. "There is no danger anymore. The police and I put the bad guys in jail. No one will hurt you. Ok, sweet pea?"

"Ok," she grumbled, and laid her head against the stroller's metal frame.

Ziva reached down and stroked her sun-warmed hair. "Let's go feed the ducks," she announced, and handed Sara a package of stale crackers she'd found in the back of Gibbs' pantry.

At the water's edge, Gibbs lifted Sara out of her seat and carried her to the narrow, sandy shoreline. A handful of preschool-aged children were already there, laughing and throwing bread to the waiting ducks. Sara didn't cast her crackers into the water, but watched the other kids, glancing at them sideways, furtive.

"What, sweet pea? Don't you want to feed them? The duckies are waiting for you." He followed her gaze, curious. "You wanna play with them?"

She shrank back, horrified. "_No_," she blurted, and tossed her handful of crackers with a sharp twist of her arm.

"How come?" He wanted to know. "Why don't we ask if they want to throw some crackers with us."

"No," she said again, twisting around to grab hold of his shirt. "I do not want to playing with them." Her voice was loud. She felt awkward, exposed. She pulled her dress down with her free hand, stretching it over the bottom of her brace.

"Ok, we won't ask them to play, then. But you have nothing to be ashamed of, sweet pea. I'm sure there are plenty of kids who would love to play with you."

"_Theresn't_," she retorted quietly. He decided to leave it alone and kissed her impassive cheek.

. . . .

Sara was exhausted and dissolving a little more each second:Socks on. Socks off. No quilt. Yes quilt. No _Owl Moon. Y_es _Owl Moon_. Gibbs was patient, but the fifth time she changed her mind about the story—he'd already begun _Uptown _twice and _Twiddlebug Town _once—he simply tossed the book to the floor and turned her to face him.

"What's wrong?" He demanded. "You have been cranky all day."

She yanked up the front of her dress and laid her hand on the corset of her brace. "I want this off," she said resolutely.

"Sorry, sweet pea. You need to keep it on unless Julie or Adjoa takes it off. Or bathtime. But that's it; it has to stay on so you get better."

"I want this off," she repeated, and pulled at the heavy-duty Velcro straps.

"Nope," he countered. "Sorry, kiddo. On."

"Off."

"On." He smirked; she would not win.

"Off!" She kicked at the blankets with her heels. "Off! Off! Off!"

He kissed her head. "Nope, it stays on and that's it. I'm not playing this game. I know you are usually very good, but now you're tired and losing your self-control. Sleep well, sweet pea." He kissed her again and left the room.

Ziva was on the couch, thumbing through a magazine. "Someone is a little turny today."

"Cranky," he corrected, and flopped down beside her. "I think seeing those kids at the park kinda pissed her off or hurt her feelings." He thought for a minute. "Maybe we'll talk when she gets up."

A thump sounded above their heads.

"That might be sooner than you think," she said.

He shook his head. "She's wiped out. She'll sleep for at least two hours."

The thump was followed by a crash.

He took the stairs two at a time, and opened her bedroom door to find her stack of picture books scattered on the floor, along with the lamp and her sip-cup of water.

"That's not ok, sweet pea," he said gently. "Help me clean it up."

The books weren't the only mess. Sara had pulled off her dress and thrown it across the room; it dangled from the seat cushion of the rocking chair. Her brace was also gone—she'd tossed it in the corner between the dresser and the wall.

He picked her up and sat her on the floor. "Pick up the books, Sara."

She stared at him defiantly.

"Sara," he commanded. "You need to clean up the books. Throwing them on the floor is not okay. Use your words to say what you're feeling."

She looked at the mess and back to him, daring and defiant.

"Fine," he agreed sharply. "You are too tired. You can clean it up when you get up from your nap. Now we're putting your brace back on and you're going to sleep."

He strapped her back in, smoothed her bodysuit and legwarmers, and laid her back among the blankets.

"Goodnight. Again." He dropped a kiss on her cheek, nuzzled her ear, and left, making sure the door didn't close all the way.

Ziva looked up from her magazine. "She is manipulating you."

"Well it didn't work," he huffed, and sat down in the recliner with a catalogue of classic cars for sale.

"Right," she said mildly, and leaned back, closing her eyes.

"You need a nap, too?"

"Perhaps," she agreed without opening her eyes. "I cannot believe I am so lazy."

"Go lie down for a bit. Your body is working really hard to fix your arm."

"Are _you_ feeling all right? That is not a Gibbs thing to say."

"_I'm so tired_ isn't a David thing to say," he shot back, and she pouted.

"Fine, I will rest. But you will wake me in an hour."

"Sure I will," he scoffed. She missed his expression because she was bound for the stairs and the guest room beyond.

A sniffle stopped her in the hall. Pushing open the door to Sara's room, Ziva found her curled around her rabbit. Her face was red and puffy.

"_Shaifeleh_, why are you crying?"

"Daddy," she sniffed, and hugged the rabbit closer.

"You are upset because Daddy scolded you for making a mess?"

Sara shivered in confirmation.

"Well you are ok. Daddy was not angry with you, but you need to use your words when you are angry or sad. Or even when you are happy."

"_M'sobad_." She sobbed harder and hid her face in the pillow.

"You are not bad," Ziva sighed, and picked her up, wavering as her center of gravity adjusted to the added weight. "We are going to find Daddy."

He was in the kitchen, eating sliced salami and staring out the window above the sink.

"Here," Ziva said softly, and shifted Sara into his arms. "Your tired girl needs you."

"_M'sorry, Daddy_," Sara blurted, crying harder still. "_M'so sorry. M'so bad_."

Ziva disappeared, tiptoeing up the stairs to the guest room.

"You're not bad, sweet pea. You made a bad choice, but you're not bad."

He rocked her in his arms, shushed her, kissed her hair. He pulled a clean dishtowel from the pantry, wet it, and cleaned her hot, streaky face.

"Don' throwing me away," she cried. "Please. M'sorry."

"I would never throw you away. Not even if you made all the bad choices in the world."

"I'll wearing my brace f'effer," she promised fretfully.

He smiled. "No, you won't. Just until you're all better."

She was drifting off already, leaving tears and mucus on his shirt. He paced the first floor until he was certain she was out, then carried her up to bed and laid her down. She stirred and put her thumb in her mouth.

"Sh," he whispered, and kissed her cheek. "Sleep now and burgers later."

"Mm," she agreed, and closed her eyes.

. . . .

Tim slipped in the front door soundlessly, propped his laptop bag in the hall and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Sara was at the dining room table, stabbing chunks of bunless burger with a fork and smearing them through ketchup.

"Hi, Sara," he said politely.

"Hi, Tim. Bunny and I are having burgers." Sure enough, the rabbit he'd given her was propped up in another chair, wearing a bib embroidered with the Marine Corps insignia.

"That's great. Though rabbits are obligate herbivores. Maybe you should make his burger out of clover."

She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Tim, it's not a real burger. Bunny isn't eating anything."

"Oh," he whispered back. "Well I hate to break it to you, but Bunny _is_ real. That's why I brought this." He pulled a bag of baby-cut carrots out of his pocket and laid in on the table in front of her. "He called me on my cell, asked for carrots. Apparently you guys are out."

Sara's mouth turned into a little _o_. She laid down her fork, opened the package with clumsy hands, and put a carrot in front of her rabbit. Then she turned away, working her child's logic into the assumption that he wouldn't eat it if she was looking.

Ziva came down the stairs, disheveled and wide-eyed.

"Hey, Ziva," Tim said amiably. "Good nap?"

"No one woke me," she grumbled, and sat down with a _hmph_.

"You need the sleep," he argued. "Your cells produce healing acids while you're unconscious. Have you tried taking a calcium supplement before bed?"

She shook her head.

"Maybe you should try it. Not that I'm telling you what to do," he amended quickly, knowing how much she appreciated orders from her peers, "but it'll maximize your healing potential."

"Will it make the pain stop sooner?" She yawned widely.

"No. You should expect to feel crappy for eight or ten weeks. You've sustained major bone trauma. You'll have pain for a while, and then you'll probably need PT to get the muscle tone back that you lost to atrophy."

Ziva's jaw dropped. "The doctor told me it would be a while, but he did not say eight to ten weeks."

"And then physical therapy," Tim repeated, helping himself to a burger and salad.

"For how long?" She wrinkled her nose when he held out a burger as a means to ask if she wanted one.

"A month, maybe more. Depends on how you heal."

"Can you take me to buy supplements? Please? I cannot be out of the field for three months."

He knew it would be more like six, but he nodded and added mustard and pickles. "Sure. Want to go later tonight? Are you on duty with Sara?"

"Yes, later. No, Gibbs is outside grilling the last of the meat."

"Ok, then we'll go once she's had a bath. Did you guys do anything interesting today?"

"Fed ducks. Napped. Went to HSC. You should see her walk."

He smiled, mouth full. "She's a great kid."

Ziva nodded and stepped aside so Gibbs could get in the back door. "What's up, McGee?"

"Not too much. I checked out a gait trainer for Sara, but it seems that she's already on her feet."

"Gait trainer?"

"Yeah." He opened his laptop to a video demonstration by the biomedical engineering company. "It's like a walker, but it would hold her up in a harness, bearing her weight to varying degrees while she relearns a proper stride."

Gibbs toasted a bun and watched how the harness could hold increased bodyweight while the patient grew stronger.

"Then, when she's fully independent, she can use the frame without the harness as a support for long distances." He snapped his computer shut. "But if she's already independent, then it's not really necessary. How many steps can she take alone?"

Gibbs chewed, counting in his head. "Ten, maybe. Twelve. She's really motivated to be walking again."

Tim nodded. "She should be increasing her peer-to-peer social interaction. Independent mobility is important for that at her age."

"She doesn't like other kids."

McGee paused. "Social engagement with other children is essential. Have you thought about a mixed-ability playgroup?"

"No," he said flatly. "She'll join up when she's ready. She isn't ready right now. Maybe in a few months. Or years."

Tim took another bite of burger and silently hoped she wouldn't turn into a functional mute like her father.

"M'done," Sara called from the dining room. Ziva was already there, wiping her ketchupy hands.

"Eat, Ziver," Gibbs said around a mouthful of burger. "I'll bathe her."

"I am fine, Gibbs. I am not much in the mood for red meat."

He stopped chewing and glared at her. "I don't know where these food issues are coming from David, but you'd better get over 'em quick. You eat, or I'll feed you myself."

She glared back. "The medication is hard on my stomach. I do not have much of an appetite."

Tim tried to make it seem like they weren't ganging up on her. "Gibbs is right, Ziva. You need a lot of nutrition while you're healing. Maybe you won't be so tired if you eat a little more."

"I am not hungry," she said smoothly, but they could tell her temper was flaring.

"Eat," Gibbs spat, pointing to the kitchen. "Or I'm calling Ducky to set you up with IVs."

"Zeeba!" Sara warned. "You don't wanting a needle! Maybe just a little-little bite. With ketchup?"

Defeat pushes her shoulders down. "Ok, _shaifeleh_. I will eat a few bites. Maybe ketchup will make it better."

"It does," she said, serious and grey-eyed. "Ketchup makes everything better. How about you giving me a bath?"

"I cannot right now. But when my arm is better we will go swimming together."

Sara's face lights up. "Ok. Daddy?"

He lifted her into his arms and she snuggled in, tucking herself against his polo and popping her thumb in her mouth.

"Cozy there, sweet pea?"

"Yeah," she sighed.

Tim put his plate in the dishwasher. "Ziva and I are going to run to the pharmacy, Boss. Need anything?"

"I don't, but Ziva needs a smoothie." She shook her head, but he pressed on. "A large one. With extra ice cream. And I want the empty cup as evidence."

"Abby will seeing it," Sara said around her thumb. "She will looking for ever-dance."

Gibbs, Ziva, and Tim tried hard to keep straight faces, but Tim flared his nostrils and they collapsed in gales of laughter.

"What?" Sara sniffed.

Gibbs shook his head. "Nothing, sweet pea. You are just too much sometimes."

She frowned. "Too much _what_?"

"Too sweet," Ziva assured her. "Too loving. And too smart."

Sara stuck her thumb back in her mouth and stared for a minute, wide-eyed. "I love you," she finally said, and looked at each of them with intention, meeting their eyes with her own seawater gaze. "I wanna staying with you f'effer."

"You can," Gibbs promised gently.

She looked away. "Even if m'making bad choices."

"Yeah," he confirmed.

She studied Tim's face, then Ziva's in the dusty lamplight, but her expression was distant, dazed. "Ok," she agreed easily. "M'staying here."

"You ok, sweet pea?"

"M'ok," she confirmed, and grabbed his face in her hands. "I love you, Daddy," she said with quiet resolution.

"I love you, too," he parroted.

Her face grew serious, peaked. "You be good, Daddy, ok? Jus' be good. And tomorrow we'll getting ice cream."

He laughed. "I will be good. But what about Ziva and Tim? Can they get ice cream tomorrow?"

"No, they'll having it tonight. So not tomorrow. But they are always good. Making good choices."

"We try," Tim said, and smiled. "But it's not an exact science."

She scrunched up her face at him, not quite understanding.

Ziva brushed an errant curl away from her face. "What Tim means is that not everyone can make the right choice every time. Sometimes we make mistakes, and then we have to fix them. It is how we learn, _Shaifeleh_."

Sara puzzled for a minute and rested her head again, indicating that she'd had enough. "M'tired," she slurred.

"Bath and bed," Gibbs ordered, and waved Tim and Ziva toward the door. "And Tim and Ziva will go to the pharmacy."

"Making good choices," she called as they stepped out the front door, and they laughed and waved.

"M'never having brothers or sisters before," Sara mused.

Gibbs just laughed and flicked on the light above the stairs. "They love you to pieces, kiddo."

"I love them, too," she said bluntly, and scrubbed at her eyes. "F'effer."


	34. Gossip In the Grain

**I'm so sorry for the delay; I needed some time and space before I could post this. But I'm here for now and ready to go, so read on, folks. And be careful-it's a dark one. Protect yourself the way the Mecha would protect you if she could. Big love as always and thanks and thanks, Mecha.**

_Says the silly sparrow, a gossip in the grain,_

_Have you heard the...oh, you don't say._

_-Ray LaMontagne, "Gossip in the Grain."_

Sara was floating a plastic tugboat across the bubbly sea when Tony came in, carrying the portable phone.

"For you, Boss."

"Didn't hear it ring."

"Ring," Sara echoed, and Tony took over bathtime.

"Yeah, Gibbs." He stepped into his bedroom with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. He could fold laundry while they spoke.

"Agent Gibbs, it's Sophia Costa, I'm the prosecutor on your daughter's case. Do you have a minute to speak?"

"One," he groused. "It's her bedtime."

"I won't keep you, then, but jury selection ended this afternoon. I'd like to schedule an appointment to begin recording her testimony."

He bristled. "I was told by the detectives that we had time."

"I understand how you feel, Agent Gibbs, but prison officials have indicated that Edward Godwin is ill. They've decided to push his court dates ahead."

He folded one of Sara's dresses and laid it on the bedside table, sighing. Guilt gnawed at his insides. "When do you want to see us?"

"Tomorrow."

"What? That's ridiculous. I need to speak to Sara about this; I'm not bringing her in there without fair warning."

"I've arranged for Dr. Goldman to be here with us for the initial interview. I don't want to stretch this process any more than we have to, Agent Gibbs. The faster I get her in here and talking, the faster it will be over. I don't intend to torture her."

"Fine," he growled. "But you even look at her wrong and we're out of there."

"My office is a safe place. You have my word that she'll be ok. Eleven am?"

"Yeah. Goodnight."

He hung up and thrust the phone back at Tony, who was holding a towel-clad Sara in the hallway. The lavender smell of her soap wafted towards him and he held his arms out.

"Hey, sweet pea. Let's do PJs and talk, ok?"

"Ok." She snuggled against his chest and wet his shirt with her hair.

He pulled her favorite elephant pyjamas from the dresser. "We have an important job tomorrow," he reported. "Do you want to know what it is?"

She lifted her hips as he drew her pyjama pants up, then rolled and sat up so he could put her shirt on. "What job, Daddy?"

"Tomorrow we have to go tell the lawyer about what happened with Mr. Godwin."

She stared at him for a second then said simply, "Oh. Ok."

He drew the corset of her brace around her hips. "You're ok with that?"

"Him is in jail f'effer," she said quietly, and helped him snug the Velcro straps.

"That's why we need to talk to Ms. Costa tomorrow. She's going to make sure that he stays there."

He fastened the last strap and she held up her arms. "Up, Daddy. Please?"

He picked her up and settled them both in the rocking chair. "You want to read, or should we just have quiet time?"

"Quiet time," she said softly, and laid her head on his chest again. Gibbs rocked and hummed and expected a sleepless night.

Downstairs, Tony slumped on the couch next to Ziva, who laid aside the remote and scowled at him.

"Must you do that?"

He scowled back. "What good's a couch if you can't flop down on it?"

"One: you wear out the furniture," she complained, "and two: I am sore, Tony. Be more careful. Would you do that if Sara was sitting here?"

He grinned. "No, I'd do _this_." He dragged her across the cushions and into his lap, laying smacking kisses on her cheeks. "But not this," he amended devilishly, and kissed her on the mouth. She probed his lower lip a bit with her tongue and sat back.

"I am glad you are here tonight," she admitted, glancing at him with dark, uncertain eyes. "I miss…you. I miss the time I spend with you."

His smile grew and he tightened his grip, careful of her arm. "I've missed you, too, Zi. But I know why Boss wants you here."

Ziva nodded. "I have stopped threatening to go home." The uncertainty in her eyes grew deeper, more desperate. "I find that I need people around me. My therapist said weeks ago that I needed to cultivate my support network, and I guess this is how I am going to do it."

"You're doing great," Tony promised, and kissed her brow. "As much as I miss having you at my house," _in my bed_ he added silently, "I know Gibbs will take good care of you. Of both of you. I'll probably crash here tonight, too."

"Ok," she agreed, and shifted. Her arm was growing heavy, but before she could lift her head from Tony's chest Gibbs appeared with two pills in one hand and water in the other.

"Here," he said to her, and to Tony, "You're on the couch tonight—none of this with a kid around. It's inappropriate."

"It's inappropriate to show a child that two people love each other?" Tony challenged. "Especially a child that has known very little love until now?"

"Sara doesn't need to see you two in the same bed. Not in my house, and not before you're married. To her, it means something entirely different." He sat down next to them. "Besides, I'm putting twenty bucks on her being in with Ziva by midnight."

She frowned—they'd had a good day. "What happened?"

"Lawyer called. She wants to start on her testimony tomorrow at eleven."

Tony nodded. "Thought so. Only an attorney would call at ten minutes to eight. I take it you told Sarie?"

"I can't keep it a secret from her. She'd be furious with me." He looked down at Ziva's broken arm.

"And no one wants that," Tony added with a sharp laugh. "She's downright fierce for such a tiny thing."

Gibbs smirked and eyed Ziva. "Runs in the family. I'll be downstairs."

. . . .

Gibbs wasn't wrong: Ziva was pulling her sling off when a sharp cry startled her. She retightened the strap and made her way to Sara's room where she found her panting and sweating in the glow of the night light.

"_Shaifeleh_, you are ok. It was just a bad dream." She ran a hand over her damp curls. "Should I get your daddy?"

"You," she snuffled.

Bracing herself, Ziva lifted Sara with her good arm and sat her in the guest bed, where she crawled beneath the covers and, seemingly, fell back to sleep. Ziva changed as quickly as she could and crawled in next to her.

"Zeeba?" Sara asked, voice thick with sleep.

"Hm?"

"Bad man hurted you."

"That was a long time ago, little one. We are safe now." Ziva stroked her cheek gently.

"You having lines from hitting. I saw. On you neck."

"You are safe, _shaifeleh_," she repeated, and laid her hand on Sara's chest, rubbing absently. "I am fine. Those men will never hurt anyone again."

"Good," Sara said, and slept again.

Gibbs tiptoed in just before Ziva dropped off. "Heard her get up," he whispered. "You ok?"

She nodded, eyelids drooping.

"Ok. I'm going to bed. DiNozzo's downstairs. Call if you need either of us." He pressed a kiss to her temple and another to Sara's cheek and crept out. A glow filtered in; he'd moved the nightlight from Sara's room into the hallway.

. . . .

_Mr. Godwin was angry with her again; she'd forgotten to take her shoes off and tracked mud all through the kitchen. He took off his belt but she was already reaching for the floor cleaner and the roll of paper towels, so he dropped it to his side. It turned into a limp dead snake. Sara sprayed and scrubbed. The marks turned from black to brown to red and smeared to her hands, her jeans, her hair. They grew into drag marks at the threshold between the kitchen and living room. She swiped at them furiously, but they reappeared the second she cleaned them away._

_Mr. Godwin grabbed her from behind, tightening his fingers in the soft part around her shoulders, lifting and shoving in one motion._

"_See what you did?" He shouted, breath hot on her ear. "This is your fault. Don't you open your filthy mouth."_

_He thrust her forward and she tripped over a body—or two bodies. Mr. Shawn had Ziva pinned to the floor, one hand over her mouth, another tangled in the roots of her hair. She was scrambling to get away, reaching for Sara who was rooted to the spot, horrified. Mr. Godwin brought his heavy boot down on Ziva's arm and it broke with a crunch. She struggled on, oblivious._

"_See that?" He asked Sara. "See what you did? You ain't nothing. Tell your daddy that he's gonna be sorry." He grabbed her shoulders again, but gently this time. There was a hand in her hair_-

And Daddy was calling her name from far away. "Wake up, Sar," he said. "You're ok. Just a bad dream."

She gulped air, feeling cold and hot at the same time. He was still stroking her hair, pushing curls away from her face with his thick, callused fingertips. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his lap.

"Sh, sweet pea. Daddy has you. It's ok."

Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Daddy was wearing a soft t-shirt with letters on it. They chaffed her cheek when she laid it on his chest.

"Daddy?" She whimpered.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

Ziva was blinking at her from the pillow, exhausted. She slid her good hand across the sheets and rested it on Sara's leg.

"_Shaifeleh, _you are safe. I know it is scary, but Daddy and I will take good care of you. Go back to sleep."

She nodded, numb and tired. "Zeeba," she whispered, "is my fault."

"No it is not," she grumbled back, and pulled on her leg. Daddy put her back on the bed and she scooted over, tucking herself against Ziva's side.

"Nothing is your fault, sweet pea," Gibbs vowed. "Sleep tight, ok?" He kissed her again and she took a deep breath to calm her jangling nerves. Ziva soothed her quietly, humming the song she sang when Sara was angry or afraid.

"My fault," she whispered, and wrapped one arm around Ziva's waist. "M'sorry."

"Sh," Ziva said softly, and brushed a cool hand over her brow.

. . . .

Sophia Costa's office was in a sleek high-rise on K street. Decorated in neutrals and expensive topiary, Gibbs felt like he'd stepped into a 1980s Wall Street thriller. Ms. Costa, however, did not smack of the same midcentury-modern aesthetic. She was tall and muscular and dressed casually in jeans and a blazer. Her handshake was firm.

"Thank you for coming, Agent Gibbs," she said coolly. "Dr. Goldman is waiting in my office."

The hallway was long and silent; no ringing phones, no echoing arguments, just the occasional _whoosh_ of the elevator. Costa pushed open the last door on the right and revealed a single desk, a handful of old office chairs, and a view of Lafayette Park and the White House beyond.

"You're a prosecutor? This doesn't look like it was paid for with taxpayer funds."

She smiled, not offended. "I work in a private practice. Like Dr. Goldman, I have a contract with the DA's office. I only accept certain cases, and only after careful scrutiny."

Dr. Goldman nodded and waved, winking at Sara. She was still in her stroller, quietly sucking her thumb.

"So," Costa began. "I have the recorder all set up. I'll just ask her basic questions about what happened, and she'll answer as best she can."

"Her name is Sara," Gibbs growled, and lifted her out of the stroller.

She ignored him. "Hi, Sara. My name is Sophia, and I'm the lawyer that will make sure Mr. Godwin stays in jail. Can I ask you some questions about what happened when you lived with him?"

Sara looked her over carefully. She had brown skin like Ziva, but light eyes like Gibbs. Her hair was brown and straight and her jacket was clean and buttoned nicely.

"Ok," she agreed warily, but tightened her grip on Gibbs' sport coat.

"Can you sit in that chair—the one by the green vase? I need to be able to see you through the camera."

Gibbs sat her down and Dr. Goldman grabbed her hand. "You are doing to do so great," she stage-whispered.

"I know," Sara whispered back. Gibbs stepped away and she grabbed for him, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry, Sara," Costa apologized, "but Daddy can't be in the video. It can only be you. But he'll stand right here so you can see him. I know you're brave—you can do this."

Sara took a shuddery breath and squared her shoulders. "Yes," she agreed softly.

Costa sat across the table and outside the frame. "Just answer the questions I ask, Sara. Can you do that?"

"Yes," she sniffed. Gibbs smiled at her and she tipped up the right side of her mouth.

"All right. So Sara, did you used to live with Edward Godwin?"

"Yes."

"And who else?"

"Mrs. Marion."

Costa nodded encouragingly. "And was Mrs. Marion home a lot?"

"No."

"So you were home a lot with Mr. Godwin? Alone?"

"Yeah."

"And how did Mr. Godwin treat you?"

Sara spared Dr. Goldman a sideways glance. "Bad," she answered quietly.

"What does _bad_ mean, Sara?"

"Him was not nice."

Gibbs nodded and hoped she could keep it together; it was important that her testimony was understandable.

Costa nodded again. "When you said he was not nice, does that mean he hurt you?"

"Yes." Sara's voice broke, but she raised her chin.

"How did he hurt you?"

She swallowed with a click. "Him…_he_ hitted me with his belt. And he hitted me with his hand." She raised a fist to demonstrate.

"And did he hurt you in other ways?"

Sara nodded. "He kicked me. And he pulling my hair."

Costa frowned. "Why did he do these things?"

"Cause it's my fault. I got dirt on the floor and crumbs."

"So Mr. Godwin hurt you when you got dirt on the floor?"

"Yes. With his belt and his hands and his feet. Then I had to go in the closet for a long time." Sara was dry-eyed and distant.

"Did anyone else hurt you when you lived with Mr. Godwin?"

Sara's face grew pinched, sour. "Mr. Shawn came over."

Costa puzzled at her theatrically. "Who is Mr. Shawn, Sara?"

"Mr. Godwin's friend."

"And did Mr. Shawn hurt you?"

"He…" Sara trailed off and Dr. Goldman purposefully shifted in her chair. The noise brought her back to the present and she focused again. "Mr. Shawn taked off my clothes."

Gibbs steeled himself. Anxiety crept upon him like a fog and his stomach began to churn.

"What did Mr. Shawn do after he took off you clothes?"

"He tooked off his pants and put…something inside."

Costa needed her to be specific. "He put something inside you, Sara?"

"Yes. It went up. In my…" she took a steadying breath, "in my private parts."

"Did Mr. Godwin see Mr. Shawn hurting you like this?"

"Yes."

"And what did he do?"

"He yelled at me. He said I was nothing. One time he hit me because I didn't want Mr. Shawn to…I pushed him and Mr. Godwin hitted me. On my face. It hurt my ear."

"And how many times did Mr. Shawn hurt you?"

"A lot," she answered sadly. "Mr. Shawn hurted me a lot."

Costa squared her shoulders, eyes big and wet. "Can you remember the day you went to NCIS?"

"Yes. Tim and Tony took me there. Zeeba drawed."

"What happened when you got home?"

Sara stiffened. "Mr. Godwin was so mad at me. He said I was in trouble because I telled them about him. But I didn't tell about him. I told about my mom and she is dead. I told about Joey who lived in our lellow house."

"Did Mr. Godwin believe you?"

"No. He said I was going to jail."

"What did he do?" Costa sat back and laced her fingers together.

Sara shook her head. "He maked me stand in the kitchen all night. He yelled and yelled and he hitted me and squeezed my neck. He…banged me on the wall and it hurt a lot." She stopped to wipe at her eyes. "And then he grabbed me. It was loud."

"And then what happened?"

"Mr. Shawn came and he put inside my private parts, and there was blood. Mr. Godwin yelled and hitted me more. He said I was nothing. He said I should be dead."

"Do you remember what happened after that?"

Sara was trembling, eyes round and darting. She shook her head. "No. It was cold. Then Zeeba came and she put her hand…" She raised the back of her hand to her head and rested it on her brow. "Like that."

"And that's all that you remember?"

She shrugged. "Hospital after that."

"How long did you stay at the hospital?"

Sara shrugged again. "A lot of days."

"Are you feeling better now?" Costa's eyes traveled down to the ridge in her dress left by the top of her brace.

"Yes. Sometimes M'sore but Daddy gives me medicine. Or a treat."

"I'm glad you're doing better. Thank you, Sara."

Gibbs swung around the table and scooped Sara into his arms, wrapping both arms around her tightly and holding her close. She burrowed under his chin and put her thumb in her mouth.

"Is that all?" He demanded.

"That's it. I'll make a backup copy of this and get the original to the DA."

"Do we need to do anything else?"

Costa shook her head. "I doubt it. You won't have to be in court, either. Go home and relax with your kid; you both did great today."

Dr. Goldman stood up. "I'll walk them down to the garage." She grabbed the stroller and pointed it out the door.

"Thank you," Gibbs said honestly, and shook Costa's hand.

"You're welcome," she said warmly. "Sara, thanks for all your hard work today. Make sure you get a treat today, ok?"

Sara didn't respond; her eyes were grey and vacant, her thumb lose in her mouth.

Gibbs offered a wave and followed Dr. Goldman out the door. At the elevator, she turned pointedly and planted herself in Sara's line of sight.

"You ok, kiddo?"

Silence. She didn't even blink.

"Hey, Sar, you gonna be alright?"

Nothing again.

Gibbs shifted her from one arm to the other and she barely registered the change.

"She ok?" He worried.

"She'll need you today. Cancel any other appointments. Ziva home today?"

He nodded. "At the doctor now. She'll be home when we get there."

She patted his shoulder and smiled tightly. "Good. Take care of yourselves."

. . . .

Ziva was on the couch when Gibbs carried a still-dazed Sara into the house, sipping a smoothiem her arm propped on pillows that had been carried down from the second floor.

"How was it?" She asked, toying with her straw.

He gestured to Sara, who was as limp in his arms as she'd been when he'd unintentionally drugged her with sedatives.

Ziva nodded understandingly.

"Where's DiNozzo?" He wondered suddenly, swaying Sara a little.

"Back at work. They had something on the Martinelli case. Vance asked him to interview a person of interest."

He sat on the couch, mindful of her arm. "What did the doctor say?"

"That I am terribly swollen and undermedicated. He gave me _another_ prescription for pain medication." She held out a bottle labeled with her name, birthdate, and _Tramadol_.

He smirked. "Had I known that I would've let you share with Sara. Take any yet?"

"I'm waiting it in," she said evenly.

"Waiting it out," he corrected. "And no, you're not. It's non-narcotic and won't make you nauseous. Take one. Now."

She rolled her eyes but did as he said, swallowing the pill with a mouthful of smoothie.

"Good," he praised gently, and arced his neck to look at Sara. She'd fallen asleep, mouth open, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

"She needs to rest," Ziva said softly. "Today was very difficult for her."

"She was a champ," he agreed. "She held it together like no one I've ever seen."

She ducked her head. "She is braver than most people I have known." To Gibbs' surprise, Ziva slid closer and laid her head on his shoulder. He felt vaguely honored—she rarely, if ever, asked for affection.

"You ok?" He muttered casually.

"I am fine," she said hollowly. "I just…" She looked away, embarrassed, but he held steady. "I find that I could use a little…quiet time? I think that is what Sara would call it."

He smirked at her. "You can have some quiet time, Ziver. I'm not going anywhere." He chanced waking Sara and reclined, allowing Ziva to curl herself closer and prop her arm back on a pillow.

The quiet didn't last long. Sara's didn't wake, but cried out, eyes rolling, fingers twisted in Gibbs' shirt. He shushed her and Ziva twirled her curls in her fingers, but she couldn't be consoled. Gibbs stood carefully and began to pace with her still in his arms.

"C'mon sweet pea. It's ok. You're fine."

She gripped his shirt harder and arched her back, letting out a howl that set the neighbor's dog to barking.

"Sar? Wake up. You're ok."

Her muscles spasmed and he almost dropped her. "Sar?" He said firmly. "Wake up. You need to stop this now."

She woke with a start, stiffening in his arms. Her head snapped back, then forward, bloodying his lower lip. "Daddy?" She begged.

"Right here."

"I haved a bad sleep," she said dreamily. "Don't going away."

"I won't," he replied easily. "Remember how I told you that I'd never go away? I meant that, sweet pea."

"Don't throwing me away," she ordered, still half-sleeping.

"Never." He swayed again, hoping she'd either wake up fully or fall back to sleep.

She nuzzled in close and sighed against his neck. "Daddy? Is not my fault."

"What's not your fault?"

She looked out the window then at Ziva, who gave her a small smile.

"The bad man. He is not my fault."

"No, sweet pea, the bad man is not your fault. Try to sleep now. Do you want to read a book?"

She shook her head. "No. Just quiet. But maybe later a treat."

"Anything you want," he promised. And like that, she was asleep again. He put her on the couch, making sure she was close enough to Ziva to draw warmth from her, and went to the kitchen. He wet a paper towel and cleaned the blood off his chin. He probed the cut and found it was minor, just a scratch where his front teeth broke the skin. He sucked it and found it had already sealed over.

"Will you survive?" Ziva asked when he returned. "Or should I call Ducky to determine cause of death?"

"Cause of death is heart attack due to traumatized five-year-old with night terrors and a hot temper. Film at eleven."

She rolled her eyes and he could hear a tinge of fear in her voice. "You are not going anywhere, Gibbs. Not without permission from your commanding officer." She brushed Sara's hair away from her eyes and pulled the afghan over her. "Go to you boat," she ordered gently. "Sara and I will have our quiet time together."

He handed her the book she'd been working on. "Call me if you need me."

. . . .

Tony clomped down the stairs at five, chewing the end of a sub sandwich and wearing his badge and gun.

"Hey, Boss. Tim and Abby and I picked up sandwiches and sodas for an early dinner. We're all starved—this Martinelli case is a killer." He laughed at his own joke. "No pun intended."

Gibbs attached the tiller to the rudder mount. "Get anything with salami?"

"Yeah, Abby's got yours. We got a few different things for Sarie—weren't sure what she liked."

"Anything without onions. And why isn't your piece in the safe?"

"Right on, Boss," he replied smoothly, and bounded back up the stairs. Gibbs wiped his hands and met Tim at the top of the steps.

"Hey, Boss. You guys doing ok? Tony told me that Ziva told him that you had a rough time at the attorney's office." He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. "That's why we brought dinner. Thought we'd eat and take Sara for an ice cream. Give you a chance to relax."

"Thanks, McGee. Salami?"

He handed over a paper-wrapped sandwich and shifted back and forth. "Um, you should also know, Boss, that there's a ZNN news truck parked outside."

Gibbs froze midway through unwrapping his dinner. Abandoning it on the kitchen counter, he strode tensely to the window and peered out. A reporter saw him and got out of the passenger side, waving.

"Tony? Get Ziva and Sara upstairs. Abby, I need you to make sure they can't get into our phone or email records."

She pushed her plate away and whipped out her laptop, then motioned for Tim to do the same.

"McGee, jam their signals. I'm not giving them a damn thing—not an interview, not a statement, not a damn long-lens photo. And if anyone leaves it's with me as an escort."

The doorbell rang just as Tony was picking Sara up off the couch. He lifted her gracelessly and shepherded Ziva ahead of him. "We're gone, Boss," he said over his shoulder.

Gibbs opened up just enough to flash his badge. The reporter smiled and pushed her microphone at him. He knocked it aside.

"You are wasting your time and my team's energy," he snapped. "You want a story? Ask Director Mark Sullivan about salsa bars in Cartagena. And stay the hell off my property."


	35. This Must be The Place

_If someone asks,_

_ This is where I'll be._

_ -Talking Heads, "This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)."_

Sara's anxiety ratcheted as soon as Tony got upstairs. She gripped his t-shirt in her fists and swung her legs, catching him twice in the ribs.

"What're dey doing?" She demanded shrilly. "What're dey doing?"

His attempt to soothe her was ineffective. "Daddy saw some people outside that want to take pictures of you. They don't want to hurt you, but they might accidently and that makes Daddy angry. He's trying to protect you."

"I want him!" She demanded again, peering over his shoulder toward the stairs. "I want Daddy! Not you!"

Tony tried not to be hurt. He failed.

Ziva sat down on the guest bed—hers was the only room on the second floor that didn't face the street—and patted the mattress next to her. "Here, _shaifeleh_. Sit with me and Tony will get your _behaymot_ and your _sefarim_. We'll play with your farm and read."

Sara's lower lip quivered. "I want Daddy," she sniffled.

"I know, but he is busy making sure you are safe. He will get you when everything is ok."

Tony returned with two chickens and her soft rabbit; it seemed to console her a little.

"Thanks, Tony," she grumbled. She pushed _Twiddlebugs_ at him. "Can you reading?"

"Sure, bug. Want to sit on Ziva's lap?"

Sara shook her head. "No, M'sitting on you." She snuggled up, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and sighed.

. . . .

Gibbs was livid, but with his anger came a kind of calm. He dialed Costa's office with steady fingers. She answered smoothly.

"Why is ZNN on my block?" He blurted. "How the hell did they get a tip? Who did you talk to?"

He heard her take a breath. "Agent Gibbs, I am not legally permitted to speak to the media about any case, especially one involving a minor child."

Her denial churned his stomach. "You lawyers are all the same," he spat. "I have yet to find one that isn't interested in making a quick buck. Either you call them off or I have my agents tearing your office apart for phone and email records."

"Agent Gibbs," she snapped. "I took on your daughter's case because it was important to me. I am not interested in selling her story to supplement my income. Have you spoken to anyone at the Southeast precinct or at the prison where Godwin is being held?"

His stomach stopped spinning and dropped.

"I'll call you back," he snorted, and hung up.

Abby and Tim stared at him, both smiling a little. "Boss," Tim began, "We don't need to get into her office for phone and email records. We can hack those from here."

"Same with Central and Southeast," Abby agreed. She reached blindly for a Caf-Pow and came up empty, frowning. Gibbs wished he could get one for her, but ZNN was joined by two local affiliates.

"Get what you can on Godwin," he groused. "He's gotta be selling this to somebody."

Tim nodded. "You sure he's that savvy, Boss? The guy seemed pretty…dim when we spoke to him."

Gibbs smirked. "Rule Eight, MeGee."

He frowned. "Never trust the village idiot?"

"That's Fifty-Three."

"Never take anything for granted," Abby whispered.

Sara resumed her squawking upstairs. They could hear both Tony and Ziva offering reassurances, but from the pitch of her voice and the urgency of her cries Gibbs could tell a tantrum was imminent.

Tim didn't even look up from his screen to speak to him. "Sounds like you need to put out a fire, Boss."

"Story of my life," he grumbled, and stomped up the stairs.

Sara stopped squalling when she heard his footfalls in the hallway. She slid across the mattress.

"I wanted you," she informed him.

"Yeah, I heard. But what can I do that Tony and Ziva can't?"

"I wanted you," she said again.

"That's fine, but it's no reason to disrespect them." He pressed a kiss to her brow, then watched her eyes grow wide and remorseful.

"Sorry," she muttered honestly, shifting to face the two exhausted agents. "M'sorry."

"It is fine, _shaifeleh. _But next time you should have a little more patience, yes?"

She hummed and sucked her thumb.

Tony kicked back on the mattress, lacing his fingers behind his head and crossing his ankles. "What's the deal, Boss?"

"Abby and McGee are checking into it." He cast a meaningful glance at Sara, then back to them.

Ziva nodded, understanding. "He is maintaining his innocence," she said lowly. "He is convincing one of these ratings-mangers that he has been falsely accused."

"Mongers," Tony corrected, eyes closed. "Ratings-mongers, Zi. And yes, I'm sure you're right. Why don't we take a nap as a preemptive celebration for kicking their asses?"

Gibbs pulled him upward by the front of his shirt. "I need you to get Godwin's file," he ordered. "And pull him in for questioning. Bring him to NCIS; I want him in our home court."

"On it, Boss." Tony stood, smoothed out his shirt, and headed downstairs without another word.

Ziva quirked an eyebrow at Gibbs and he held Sara out to her. "You get this," he said resolutely.

She took her, but stiffened. "I am more than babysitting help," she said sharply.

He gave her a hard stare. She stared back, unafraid.

Sara but both hands on Ziva's cheeks and drew her eyes downward. "You arm is bad," she said seriously. "You have to stay here."

She crumbled, smiling. "Fine, _Shaifeleh_. I will stay with you while Daddy and Tony gallop off on their noble steeds to slay the dragon. Should we read?"

Gibbs didn't miss the acid in her tone. He kissed each of them on the temple, and then Ziva heard him open the gun safe in his bedroom.

He swept across the grass in easy strides and banged on the door to the news van. The camera operator opened up and was systematically tossed to the sidewalk.

"Where'd you get the tip?" He asked calmly, one knee in the guy's barrel-chest.

"Tip?" His eyes were rimmed with dark circles and they widened in fear. "I don't know, man. Talk to Anne."

The reporter climbed out of the passenger seat. "Agent Gibbs? Can I get a statement from you about NCIS' role in the case of Sara Cohen?"

He pressed his knee harder against the cameraman's solar plexus. "Who the hell sent you?"

The reporter smoothed her hair and tugged her cuffs. "We received an anonymous tip," she said. "A young gentleman alerted us to this remarkable story and voiced some concerns about your team. How many hours of _paid_ government time are they spending with your and your foster-daughter?"

Gibbs seriously questioned his rule against throttling women. She was smiling, standing confidently on the threshold between his property line and the public thoroughfare. He got up and shoved the cameraman back into the van.

"I'm giving you five minutes to get out of here," he snarled. "Five. Pack up your stuff and clear out—tell your buddies at the local stations what I said. Or I'll have more agents swarming your station than you can get on film in a month."

He rushed back into the house, making sure to keep his shoulders back and his gun visible.

Sara yelped when he slammed the door.

"It's fine, sweet pea," he called up the stairs, and barreled into the dining room.

"Call off DiNozzo—it's not Godwin—and dump the phones at the Navy Yard."

Tim typed furiously. "Which phones, Boss?"

"All of 'em. Someone called ZNN on you guys. Who do you know? Who's gonna tattle on you?"

He racked his brain. "Um…there's a guy on Shandy's team who's always staring at Ziva, and a woman named Samantha Urris who keeps tabs on how long any of us spend in the elevator—together or separately. She times it and writes it on a legal pad she keeps in her top desk drawer."

Gibbs shook his head. "No, the reporter called the caller a "young gentleman." Think, McGee, who do you know?"

Abby hung up. "Tony's headed back home. I got him before he got off the freeway."

"Do you know anyone who wants to rat out the team for spending time over here?"

Abby shook her head quickly. "No! There are so many people pulling for you, Gibbs! Everyone loves Sara! They're preparing all the bona-fides documents you'll need for the family court appearance. You have employment verification, letters of recommendation, personal and professional references, honors, accolades…you're set with NCIS and the Marine Corps."

His anger peaked. "Then why is someone calling in stupid, petty stories to the media?"

"Because they are jealous," Ziva called down the stairs.

He ran a hand over his hair. "Well, figure out who it is and tell them to back the hell off. I can't have this attention on us, especially with her legal status still in the air."

Abby sobered and hung her head. Tim sighed.

"What?" Gibbs demanded.

"I just…"Abby started, and paused to sniffle. "I can't think about anyone taking her away. It's so scary."

He wrapped one arm around her shoulder. "No one is taking her away. We're fine. She's fine. We just need to get the reporters off my lawn so that we don't jeopardize the custody hearing."

She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. "On it, Gibbs. Let's run this media circus out of town."

Ziva appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding her broken arm with her good one. "Sara is asleep," she announced. "How can I help?"

Gibbs nodded his thanks. "Who was in Observation when you blasted Godwin in the face?"

"Tony, Tim, and…Denison?" She screwed up her face. "No, it had to have been…Hickling? No, Tembo. Definitely Tembo."

His temper flared again. "Who _was _it David?"

"I cannot remember. It was a bit of a whurr."

"Blur," Tim corrected. "A bit of a blur."

She shrugged and winced. "That, too."

Gibbs took her by the waist and directed her to the sofa. "Sit and think. Ask for photos if you need them. McGee will give you his computer. But figure out who the hell was watching you flatten that bastard."

"Yes, Gibbs," she said vaguely.

He thrust her new bottle of meds at her. "And for God's sake, _take something_, David."

Seven long minutes passed while she took her pain medication and ran scenarios in her head, mouthing names silently at the blank television.

"Phillips!" She blurted, standing up quickly. "It was Phillips! He was with Tony in Observation because Tim had to take a phone call!"

Abby pulled up his HR records. "He's on Davis' team and has been disciplined before for disobeying chain of command."

"Imagine my surprise," Tim muttered, still hacking phone records. "Got his cell number, Abby?"

She forwarded him the file via email. "Here. And check his office phone, too. He works over in that corner under the stairs where the sound doesn't carry very well; he could easily use that line to call ZNN."

Tim didn't bother to listen—he was a half-step ahead of her. "I got four blank phone numbers dialed from his office line, all to Northern Virginia. ZNN has a field office in Arlington."

Gibbs paced the narrow space between the table and the wall. "Tell Davis to get Phillips into MTAC in half an hour." He grabbed a sport coat from the hall closet and his keys from the entry table. "I wanna have a talk with him."

. . . .

The Navy Yard was dark, sleeping between M Street and the river. Gibbs sat in MTAC, lit only by two wall sconces and the red _exit_ sign over the door. Davis and Phillips crept in, both rumpled and owlish.

Davis smoothed his wrinkled shirt. "How can I help you, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs walked into his personal space. "Your agent has a problem and we need to deal with it right here and now."

Davis laughed nervously. "Gibbs, I don't get you. NCIS gives you anything you want, but you still have the balls to ask for more. What the hell is your issue _now_?"

Gibbs turned on Phillips. "I'm at home with my daughter when a ZNN reporter shows up and asks why my team is wasting government funds." He backed off, arms crossed. "Didn't think I was gonna check on that, Agent Phillips?"

He swallowed and stood at ease.

"So I had my agents, _on their own time_, check out why the media was trampling my flowers. You know who's phone pinged on the numbers?"

Phillips dropped his gaze, belying his youth and lack of self-confidence.

"I thought so." Gibbs said, soft and dangerous. "So you're going to fix this. I don't care if you have to call every single news agency on the Eastern Seaboard—by the time I'm having my first coffee tomorrow you'd better have these fear-mongers out of my neighborhood and away from my kid. You copy, Agent Phillips?"

"Yes, Agent Gibbs," he whispered miserably.

Davis shifted uncomfortably. "Gibbs, my team is working a hot case right now at LeJeune. I can't have an agent out of the field while the investigation is still open. Can't we work something out?"

"Can't you find a temp?" He scorned. "Unless you want DiNozzo from my team, then Phillips can get up with my daughter when she has her first night terror. And then the second, and the third. Hell, you'll be on the phone all night anyway, maybe you can keep her company because she spent the day with the lawyer, recording her statement, telling yet another stranger how Godwin beat her half to death and allowed his cokehead buddy to rape her on the kitchen floor."

Davis and Phillips sucked in matching breaths, embarrassed, faintly horrified.

"So the next time you want to rat out my team for cutting out early or rolling up late, think about the last kid you saw in Interrogation. Who's keeping them safe?"

Phillips nodded. "Copy that, Agent Gibbs," he said softly. He faded out, puzzled. "Do you have your first coffee before your morning run, or after? I mean, that could give me an hour…

Gibbs smirked and his phone chirped. "I gotta go. That's probably Agent David calling to tell me about my five-year-old's panic attack. Don't worry—she's off the clock."

. . . .

Tim had Sara on his lap; the two of them sat in the halo of light thrown by a single table lamp. She was hiccupping, face red and blotchy with tears, and didn't register his presence in front of her.

"Hey, Boss," Tim whispered.

Gibbs nodded at him. "How's my girl?" He whispered back.

"Nightmare," he replied unnecessarily, and smoothed her hair with the flat of his palm. Sara stared on, listless and clearly exhausted.

Gibbs picked her up and she laid her head on his shoulder, sighing.

"You ok, sweet pea?"

She didn't respond, asleep again.

"You get everything worked out?"

He nodded, rubbing her back in even circles. "Situation Normal by sunup. Why don't you get some sleep? I can take it from here."

Tim nodded. "Mind if I take the couch?"

A frown crossed Gibbs' face. "DiNozzo in with David?"

He shrugged. "Not on purpose. He went up to check on her and didn't come back. Neither of them budged when Sara got up."

"Everyone's beat. There are blankets and a pillow in that fancy trunk-thing that Abby bought. Hit the rack, McGee."

"Night, Boss."

Gibbs carried Sara upstairs, thinking he'd lay her down on his bed while he traded his polo for sweats and an old tee. Instead, he found Abby sprawled there, still wearing her boots, an empty Caf-Pow on the nightstand. He shook her shoulder gently and she woke with a sigh.

"Here," he whispered roughly, and slid Sara under the quilt. "Get in with her."

Half-asleep, Abby curled under the blankets and drew her close. Gibbs changed quickly, dug his old bedroll out of the closet, and spread it on the floor.

. . . .

A warm, slightly sticky hand on his cheek woke Gibbs early. The house was still quiet, the light on the walls greyish.

"Daddy," Sara whispered. "Why you are sleeping by the floor?" She crawled over him and cuddled close, laying her head on his arm.

"Cause you were in my bed with Abby," he whispered back. "And how did you get down here?"

He felt her smile. "I went like this." She stuck her feet in the air and waved them back and forth. She'd wiggled out, using the sideboard as a makeshift ladder.

"You want to running, Daddy?"

"Not yet," he grumbled. "Let's let everyone sleep for a little longer."

"Ok." She snuggled up next to him, tucking her knees into his side.

He tried to fall back to sleep, but he'd no sooner drift off than she's shift or sigh or throw out an arm and whack him in the face. Within an hour she was sideways across his chest, arms out, mouth open. Unable to fake it any more, he got up, standing with Sara still in his arms.

The sun was up, and with it came Ziva, sleepy and pale in the hallway.

"Go back to sleep," he ordered gently, but she shook her head.

"No. I will make breakfast this morning. I've had enough of being waited on."

He looked at her arm. "Ok. Call me if you need help."

He didn't even hear her take the stairs.

Abby shifted and cracked one eyelid. "Morning," she rasped, and held out her arms for Sara.

"Stay with Abby," he whispered in her ear. "I'm going to help Ziva cook."

"Ok," she muttered. She tumbled into Abby's arms and fell back into a hard sleep.

Downstairs, Ziva was staring blankly at a carton of eggs. "What should I make?" She mused to Gibbs.

"How about I do this and you supervise. Breakfast burritos?"

"Sure. But McGee will complain if they are too spicy."

They shared grins and a taste for hot peppers.

Tim shuffled in and reached for the coffeepot. "News vans are gone," he croaked. "I saw the last one leave around five-fifteen."

Gibbs gaped at him. "Did you sleep at all?"

He blushed, shrugged, and joined Ziva in leaning against the opposite counter. "No offense, Boss, but that couch leaves much to be desired."

"Guess DiNozzo was right. Maybe I'll replace it."

Abby carried Sara down the stairs and handed her to Tim. "What's wrong with her?" She begged. "All of the sudden she's fidgety and cranky."

Tim put her on the floor at his feet. "She's tired of being held. Here, Sar." She took his hands and he pulled her to her feet. She wobbled; he steadied her with his knee.

"Walk," he encouraged. "I'll hold you up."

She took one awkward, tentative step, then another, eyes on the floor. He positioned himself over her, prepared to tighten his grip if she stumbled. She stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.

"Keep going," he said kindly. "I bet you can go all the way to the table."

Tony intercepted her before she could grab the back of a chair. He swung her up into the air, letting her limbs fly before resting her against his shoulder.

"Looks like someone will be cruising the furniture by this afternoon," he observed, and kissed her cheek.

"Prob'y," she agreed easily.

"Did you hear that, McWalker? She called you 'Probie'."

"She said 'probably,' Tony, and you're right. I think we should cover the corners of the coffee table with soft foam so she doesn't bump her head."

Gibbs scoffed from in front of the stove. "That's ridiculous."

Tim moved his laptop from the table to the sideboard. "Actually, Boss, coffee tables are responsible for an alarming number of head injuries in young children, especially new cruisers and walkers."

"It's not about statistics, McGee. Anyone who let's my kid even come close to banging her head on _anything_ is…"

He didn't want to finish the threat in front of Sara, but they all understood perfectly; a single scratch brought hell to pay.

"Got it, Boss," Tony smiled. "No bumped heads all around."

Shockingly, given the hour, Gibbs' cell buzzed in its basket on the entry table. He answered it still holding a bottle of hot sauce.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

Tony raised his eyebrows at Tim. "Who the hell is calling at six-thirty in the morning?"

Sara clucked and eyed him for swearing. "Tony," she sighed, shaking her head in exasperation.

"Tony is sorry," McGee said pointedly. Tony just ducked his head apologetically and knew a self-head-slap was out of the question. He didn't want her to freak out on him; from the sound of it, Ziva was asleep on the couch and wouldn't be any help in comforting her if she burst into tears; he loved Sara tremendously, but still got a little weirded out when she had one of those horrible, terrified tantrums.

Gibbs snapped the phone shut, smiling. "That was the adoption lawyer. We go before the judge in three weeks." He threw his phone down. "And we should expect to see the social worker this afternoon." He picked Sara up and put their faces together, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "Do you know what that means, sweet pea?"

She shook her head and pressed her brow against his chin.

"Means that we are finally going to talk to the judge who will make you mine forever."

"Yeah," she said vaguely, and wrapped both arms around his neck. "I already knew that, Daddy."

"Oh yeah?" He flipped her up onto his shoulder so her head was upside-down. She went wild with giggles and let her arms fall forward so she was in a fireman carry. He tickled her, danced his fingers around her still-prominent ribcage, let her dangle for a few seconds and then righted her. "Ms. Susan has to come today to check on you. Don't be afraid, ok? She can't take you anywhere." He smoothed her pyjamas back into place while he spoke.

She sobered, eyes going grey. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," he said confidently.

"Positive," she repeated back to him, holding the _s_ sound between her teeth. He stared at her for a minute, eyes roving from her dark hair to her bare feet. She looked healthier than ever, clear-eyed and secure. Her seawater eyes met his steadily and she quirked a little smile at him.

"Should we make sure the burritos aren't burned to a crisp?"

"They prob'y are," she shrugged. "You tooking a long time on the phone." She shot Tony another withering glance. "But Tony would eating them anyway."


	36. How You Survived the War

__**Wow. I love you all. Xo, Mecha.**

_You're not gonna lose this one._

_ You don't have to cut and run._

_ You can learn to love and what's more— _

_ That is how you survived the war._

_ -The Weepies, "How You Survived the War."_

The team scattered by lunchtime; Abby went to the lab, Tim and Tony to the bullpen, and Ziva was quietly working in the guest room, tapping away on a NCIS-issued laptop. Sara negotiated an area-rug parcel purchase with a purple rooster. _No,_ _you may not have the end table for your pea-patch_. Away marched the rooster; in walked a killer whale and a walrus wearing green sunglasses.

She jumped when the doorbell sounded. "Daddy?"

He closed his own laptop and brushed her curls from her face. "Remember what I said, sweet pea? She can't take you away."

Sara nodded uncertainly, chewing her lower lip.

Susan smiled at her from the foyer. "Hi, Sara. How are you today?"

Sara blinked; the skirt-lady was talking to her like they were old friends and it made her a little uncomfortable. Or a lot uncomfortable. She itched under her brace. The long scar yelled at her.

"Fine," she answered blandly, casting a fisheye at Gibbs. "Thank you." She sniffed and returned to her play.

Susan raised her eyebrows appreciatively. "Her speech is so nice and clear. I take it therapy is going well?"

Gibbs led her into the dining room. "It is."

She nodded. "Because of Sara's delays, CFSA will allot you a stipend for her therapeutic care after the adoption is completed. It might not cover everything but it will certainly help."

Gibbs shrugged and pulled out his readers; he would find a way to pay for what she needed if the district funds didn't materialize. "You have stuff for me to sign?"

She nodded again. "Yes. I have some forms for you to fill out now and some that will need to be completed by her doctors."

He shrugged. "We've only seen Levine twice since she's been out of the hospital. Goldman and the PT and OT at the rehab center are responsible for her care now."

Susan shook her head. "You need to have a pediatrician for her—one she'll see regularly. I have a list of recommended doctors if you'd like it."

He held out his left hand for the list and signed a form with his right, then shoved the papers across the table at her.

"Thank you, Agent Gibbs. May I see Sara's bedroom or play area?"

He stood and dropped his glasses on the sideboard. "One of my other kids is working upstairs. Please don't disturb her."

Sara's room had been straightened and swept—the toys in the toybox, her pyjamas in the hamper, her books lined up on the low shelves. _Ziva_, he thought, smiling.

"Very nice," Susan praised. "She's really settling in with you. Do you have any concerns about the process or her progress?"

"I'll bring them up with her doctor," he said firmly, ending their meeting. He led her back to the front door. "And the forms will be on your desk within forty-eight hours."

"Thank you, Agent Gibbs." She leaned around the corner and poked her head into the living room. "Bye, Sara. I'll see you in a few weeks ok? Have a fun day."

Sara blinked. "Thank you," she said again. "Goodbye." Her tone was stiff, overformal, and her eyes were blank.

Gibbs closed the door and took her in his arms. "You ok, sweet pea? I told you she couldn't take you away."

"M'ok," she sighed, and brushed a hand over her eyes.

"How about some lunch?"

She shrugged. "C'n I just have juice?"

He picked her up and she curled against him, grabbing possessively at his collar.

"No, baby girl, you need to eat every meal. Even if it's just a few bites."

He got her some chicken and a few bites of leftover steamed carrots, but she only picked at her food and laid her head on the table.

"I need a nap," she declared tearfully. "I want my bed and my bunny."

He hauled her out of her chair and up the stairs. "Let's give Ziva a kiss goodnight."

Kisses and kindness were exchanged. Ziva nuzzled Sara's neck and whispered something sweet and secret in her ear. Sara smiled and poked at Ziva's shoulder with a nubby finger.

"You need to being better, Zeeba," she said gravely. "Tony needs you."

Ziva chuckled. "I think she is tired of sharing her Daddy." She cupped her right elbow with her left hand.

He lifted her back into his arms and she immediately began to drowse on his shoulder. "Let me put her down and we'll talk."

He retuned in minutes. "The social worker handed me a bunch of forms and gave me an ass-tap for good luck."

She gaped. "Can't you sue her for that? You litigious Americans love the legal system."

Gibbs shook his head. "It's a football thing, David. Means she's got my six."

Ziva nodded, blinked, yawned. Gibbs smirked knowingly.

She straightened, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. "No," she announced. "I am not sleeping any more. I need to work."

He nodded. "Ok," he agreed mildly, scratching his head. "Do what you need to do. I'll be in the basement."

She slid off the bed. "Do you need my help?"

He looked her over in wry disbelief; dressed in yoga pants and one of Tony's old rec-league t-shirts, she looked like she was ready to camp on the couch, not haul lumber in his workshop. But her expression was open, direct, and meant she wouldn't take _no_ for an answer.

"Fine, but you have to put shoes and socks on. I don't need you with a busted foot, too, David."

She grabbed her sneakers and traipsed after him down two flights of stairs to where the boat was keel-up on its sawhorses.

He handed her a sanding block. "With the grain," he instructed, and pointed at the prowl. They worked silently for ten minutes and then he abruptly jerked her hand from the hull.

"Thought you were seeing a headshrinker. You haven't left the house except for that doctor's appointment."

She studied the floor. "Tony is very busy now as head of MCRT and I am not cleared to drive."

"You didn't ask me." He let go of her hand and pointed to her untied shoelaces.

She twisted her left hand in a dismissive gesture. "You are busy with Sara," she replied evenly.

He crouched and tied her right shoe. "So I can't take her for a twenty-minute car ride? Think she wouldn't want to get a treat while you were in session?"

Her eyes narrowed. "She is your first priority."

He dropped her left foot and she jolted, hissing.

He gave her an indiscernible glare. "That's shouldn't have hurt," he barked. "You're ten days post-op, Ziver. When are you going to start taking care of yourself?"

She blushed. "I am fine."

"Bull," he spat. "If you were fine you wouldn't be sleeping the day away, skipping your meds, refusing to eat. If you were fine you'd be doing paperwork at home, waiting for DiNozzo to show up with pizza and bad movies, not cowering in my basement."

She flinched when he tossed his planer on the workbench and it clattered against his row of hanging screwdrivers.

"I am not hiding," she said softly.

"Yeah you are, David, and I want to know why."

She shifted her feet, cupped her elbow, and scowled at him, furious and dark-eyed.

"Why are you angry?" He demanded.

She drew herself up. "Because I am afraid you will all disappear!" She burst. "I am afraid that if I leave I will come back to no one—you will all be gone and I'll be al—" She broke off, overwhelmed, embarrassed. Her good hand went over her eyes.

He drew her close. "Ziver, why didn't you say so?"

"I did not know how," she ground out.

He rubbed circles on her back and arms, stroked her curls away from her face. "You can stay as long as you need to," he said softly. "But you need to take care of yourself. I want you to talk to Ducky and your doctors."

"I will," she sniffed.

"Yeah, you will," he ordered gently, telling her silently that he'd be in on the discussions or Tony would report back to him. She stiffened, prepared to protest, but he tightened his grip. "It's not because I don't trust you, Ziver, it's because I want to be kept in the loop. I would do it with anyone else."

"No you would not," she complained, and pulled away. "No special treatment, Gibbs," she refused. "It isn't fair."

"What's not fair is losing an agent to something avoidable, like depression or PTSD or a broken arm," he countered. "This isn't an option; you bring DiNozzo or me to your appointments or I take you in for a seventy-two hour hold so they can get you on treatment plan."

She sucked in a breath, livid. "You would _never_!"

He shook her lightly be the shoulders. She flinched again but he didn't let go.

"Do you know what you're about to throw away? Think about how hard you've worked, all the things you've given up. Do you really want to lose your badge? Your gun? Your rank? Could you let…_whatever_ this is take that away from you?"

"Let go of me," she squeaked, closing her eyes. "Please. Please let go of me." She'd gone white and cold. "Please let go of me."

He let go and she stumbled back a few steps, breathing hard, wide-eyed and vacant.

"Look at me," he said softly.

She raised her hand to her brow. "No," she whispered.

He kept his tone light and even. "Ziver, I need you to look at me. I'm worried you're having a flashback."

"No," she whispered again, swaying on her feet.

He directed her to the steps by her unbroken arm, where she said with a sigh and hung her head. She didn't look up for a long time.

"This is why I think you need to see the doctor," he said softly. "I take care of Sara—why wouldn't I do the same for you?"

She wouldn't look at him.

"Let's go upstairs," he suggested, "and we'll make some phone calls together." He gathered her hands. "I'll sit with you, but you have to do it—DiNozzo is your proxy and he's not here. I'm not waiting for him."

"So impatient," she grumbled good-humoredly, and gave him a tiny smile.

"I get it done," he replied sternly, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

. . . .

Ziva was curled on the couch with the quilt from the guest bed when Ducky let himself in, medical bag in hand.

"How are you this afternoon, Ziva dear?"

She smiled at him sleepily. "I am fine, Ducky. Gibbs called you because I was not feeling well earlier. It seems to have passed."

He was unconvinced. "You are quite pale. Do you mind if I take a look at your arm?"

She sat up, struggling among the pillows, and offered her wounded wing.

"You went to the doctor, yes? You're still too swollen for a hard cast?"

"I am," she said coolly. "But I have another appointment on Monday. I'm sure it will be fine by then."

He unrolled the last of the compression bandages and peeled off the soft splint only to whistle between his teeth. "Ziva, you look terrible. The incisions are raw and you have quite a lot of skin breakdown. Are you cleaning and caring for your injury as per the hospital instructions?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "But I have trouble doing it myself."

"So really you mean 'no,' then," he corrected. "This is why Jethro called me, isn't it? You aren't taking any initiative in your healing. What are you afraid of, Ziva?"

"I am not _afraid_ of anything, Ducky. I do not wish to bother anyone, so I have forgotten to ask for help a few times. I will not do that again. Please just do what you need to do. I will take a more vested interest in my health. I promise." She shifted her arm a little higher and looked at him sharp-eyed and sour.

He cleaned her skin with sterile saline, prepped the incisions with antibiotic ointment, and added a layer of gauze padding beneath the compression wraps, then returned her splint, bandages, and sling.

She sighed. "That is better. Thank you, Ducky."

"From now on you are to get help every evening. I don't care who it is—Jethro or Anthony or Abigail, but you are to do as the surgeon requested. Do you understand, Ziva?"

She set her jaw. "I understand. Thank you."

Gibbs appeared at the bottom of the stairs with Sara in his arms. She'd been bathed, divested of her brace, and dressed in pyjamas despite the early hour.

"Glad you're here, Duck. I got a problem." He set her down on the recliner. "I went to get her up from a nap and found her throwing up all over the place."

Ducky laid a cool hand on her brow. "She's running quite a fever. Was she feeling poorly earlier?"

"Said she was tired. Didn't wanna eat." He kissed Sara's head. "Were you trying to tell me something, sweet pea?"

She brushed at her wet hair. "My head hurts, Daddy."

Ducky checked her throat, lymph nodes, and thoracotomy incision. "It seems to be a virus. She has no spleen, Jethro, so she's more susceptible to infection than other children. I do think it was a wise decision to keep her out of school for now. They are veritable petri dishes of airborne viruses and bacteria."

Gibbs nodded. "But what do I do _now_, Duck?"

"Fluids, rest, acetaminophen, and a visit to the pediatrician if she runs a fever for more than twenty-four hours. You're a father, Jethro, trust your instincts. Is that all you needed me for?"

He shook his head. "I need you to make sure Ziver gets in to see her orthopedist and psychiatrist. Can you follow up with either of them in a day or two?"

Ducky sighed and looked at Ziva, who'd hung her head, cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment. "You know I hate to do that. She is an adult—"

"Who is acting like a child," Gibbs finished for him.

"Fine, but you must take Sara back to bed. I do not think Ziva should be exposed to whatever she might have; her own immune system is already contending with the fractures and surgical healing."

Gibbs picked his daughter up again. "C'mon, sweet pea. Let's read a story."

"Ok," she sighed. "But I might needing some juice."

. . . .

Gibbs dragged Sara's bedroom rug down to the basement and heaved it into the laundry tub. It might be a lost cause, but he wanted to try to scrub the puke out of it before giving up and throwing it out.

Tony's work shoes clicked on the stairs. "Hey, Boss," Tony said cheerfully. "Heard you're on sick-watch."

He pulled a scrub brush off the shelf. "Yeah. You here for small-talk, DiNozzo, or you taking your girl to the doctor?"

He smiled. "She's getting her stuff. Appointment's in an hour. Listen, I might need you to come in this week. We're short staffed and I could use someone to interview a few suspects in the Martinelli case. You game?"

"Yeah. Leave the file on the table—I'll look at it this evening. And take Ziver out for dinner. She needs to eat a decent meal."

Tony shrugged. "I'll try, but she's really not interested in food these days. I think the medication she's on is giving her a hard time."

Gibbs shook his head. "Bull, DiNozzo. She's conning you."

"Well what I am supposed to do about that?"

Gibbs threw the brush down and grabbed him by the collar. "You will not let her fall apart. Not on my watch. Either you get her the help she needs or I'll come at you."

Tony nodded frantically. "Ok, ok. I'm taking her to the doctor and I'll get her to eat." He adjusted the front of his shirt. "Why the rage, Boss?"

"She's not taking care of herself and no one noticed until now because we've all been focused on Sara. Did Ziver ever give her statement about what happened the day she broke her arm?"

"No," Tony realized aloud. "She never called in. I don't think she talked to Vance, either. Damn, Boss. I had no idea."

"Well tonight she sees the doc and Monday you take her in to talk to Vance."

"On it, Boss," he replied contritely.

. . . .

Ziva's doctor was appalled at the state of her arm. He chastised her gently about incision care and a correct medication. Tony held her hand as she winced and flinched through x-rays and the removal of twenty-six blue stitches. She was handed another bottle of sterile saline and sent on her way with well-wishes and a thinly veiled-threat about adequate nutrition.

Helping her into her jacket, Tony wrapped a casual arm around her shoulders. "How about Italian tonight? It's gnocchi night at Caffe Vitta."

Ziva smiled. "No, thank you. I will have something small when we get back to Gibbs'."

"Um, No, Zi. I'm not taking you home until you eat."

She pulled away, crossing her arms awkwardly. "You may not bully me, Tony, and you may not pull rank because I am not working. Please take me home."

"How about Alexander's in Silver Spring, or Pabla in Arlington? Or we could go to that Ethiopian place you like."

She shook her head. "No. I am not hungry. The pain medication makes me nauseous. I will eat when it wears off."

Tony clapped his hands assertively. "Ok, then. Alexander's it is. Do you want that fried ravioli? It's really good with the wilted spinach salad."

"First Gibbs and then Ducky and now _you," _she snapped. "I am fine and I need you to take me home. To my house. Now."

He took the scenic route back to her condo, driving past Rock Creek Park and Ohev Shalom, past the apartment complexes and the Lowell school. Ziva was silent, brooding, watching the passing residential scenery with a vaguely confounded expression.

"How do they do it?" She asked suddenly.

Tony was baffled. "How does who do _what_, Zi?"

"All these people with their children and family dinners and sport-utility vehicles. How do they do it?"

He pulled up in front of her apartment; she'd refused to let him see her to the door. "Do _what_?"

She studied the brick façade of her building, thoughtful, blinking. "Anything. How do they pay tuition or plan picnics in the park? How do they wake up next to one another and know the other one will be there when they go to bed that night?"

He shrugged. "Guess they don't, really. You just have to trust that the world will still be spinning when you punch out at five o'clock and take the freeway home."

She turned her wide, watery eyes on him. "That has not been my experience, Tony. Goodnight." She slammed the door and walked stiffly into the building without even sparing him a glance.

Aside from short visits for clothes and toiletries, Ziva hadn't been home in weeks. There was dust on her framed photos and a musty smell wafted up from the sofa cushions when she sat to regroup. She needed to go to the supermarket, the pharmacy, and back to Gibbs' house to retrieve her clothing.

She made her way to the bedroom, which was dim in the waning evening light. Her sheets needed changing, but the laundry baskets were too heavy to manage one-handed. She sighed and adjusted the shades, jumping at the rap on the door.

"Ziva?" Tony rattled his keys as a means to summon her. "It's just me. You honestly didn't think I was going anywhere, did you?"

"What are you doing?" She stood, wavering, exhausted. "I asked you to bring me home, not to tramp around after me like a puppy."

He grinned. "It's _traipse_. Though I can tramp if you want me to. Doubt your neighbors will like it." He took her good hand in his. "C'mon, let's to the market and I'll make you some dinner."

Her rage bubbled again. "I am not hungry, Tony."

"Not even for Italian Wedding Soup? It's so good, Zi. In fact, I won't make it—I'll leave it to the master at Parkway Deli. Want to go? Or you wanna lie down while I make the food run?"

"No!" She snapped, and jammed two fingers into the pressure point below his collarbone. "Now leave me alone!"

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Nah," he shrugged. "I don't want to. And Gibbs told me not to."

"Screw him," she spat.

"No thank you," he replied cheekily. "You are so much cuter."

"Stop it," she commanded roughly. "Stop teasing me like this. Go home. I wish to be alone tonight. I cannot collect my thoughts with you hanging about."

"Around," he corrected. "I'm hanging _around_. And no, I'm not leaving. You don't really want me to. Here." He pulled the back the duvet. "Lie down while I get us some dinner."

Surprisingly, she kicked off her sneakers, undid her belt, and wiggled out of her jeans before curling beneath the covers. He slid a decorative pillow under her broken arm and reached for the sling.

"No," she said softly. "It's more comfortable on."

He pulled the elastic from her ponytail and her curls tumbled onto the pillow. "Stay in bed. I'll come back with food in twenty minutes. Sleep if you need to." He kissed her head and retrieved her mobile phone from her pants pocket, laying it on the table within easy reach. "And answer that if it rings."

She tugged his sleeve. "Thank you, Tony," she said honestly. "I do not know…"

He shrugged, grinning. "It's ok, sweet cheeks. This is what I'm supposed to do. Now rest. I'll be back in a flash."

It was hard to get comfortable—her arm ached, her hip was sore, her road-rash scabs were itchy and falling off—so she sighed and fidgeted and picked her phone up over and over, only to put it down. If no one was looking for her than it was probably a good idea that she didn't go looking for anyone, either. Weren't they tired of her by now?

The front door banged open again and Tony's keys clattered on the kitchen counter. His shadow moved across the living room wall, down the hallway, and onto the headboard when he opened the bedroom door wider and haloed himself in yellowish light.

"Hey again," he whispered. "Want some soup?"

Ziva threw back the duvet. "Fine," she grumbled. "But I'll just eat enough to make the medication dissolve."

"Attagirl—no! I'll bring it in to you." He flicked on the table lamp next to her and the room was cast in gold to match the hallway. He left, returning with a Styrofoam take-out bowl and plastic spoon for her and a box full of pasta and chicken for him.

She _was_ hungry and the soup was filling, even maternal, with chunks of sweet sausage and tiny round noodles floating around in a rich broth. She ate most of it while Tony munched on his late dinner.

"Good, huh?" He said, without looking up. "How's you're stomach?"

Another surprise—she wasn't nauseous or clammy-handed after eating. "It is fine." She slid down into the blankets, warm and comfortable. "I think I may go to sleep now."

"Ok." He set his dinner aside and pulled the duvet up to her chin. He checked the clock—it was early, but not too early, so he stepped out of his shoes, peeled off his shirt, and crawled in behind her, threading one long arm around her waist.

He lowered his mouth to her shoulder. "This ok?"

She smiled against the pillow. "Yes. I have missed you."

"Me, too," he agreed softly, and watched the streetlights on the block buzz to life, one by one.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a long time, enjoying the warmth of her bed and each other.

Ziva shifted a little, pressing her face farther into the pillow. "Tony?"

"Hm?" He'd been drifting, thinking and not-thinking.

"I want permanency."

"Ok," he sighed against her t-shirt. "We're permanent."

She took a deep breath. "I want more than this."

His heart clenched and he sat up. "With me, right?"

"No," she deadpanned. "With Palmer. He has amazing abs."

He guffawed, rubbing his own stomach. "Listen, I'm a good Italian boy. I eat everything that's put in front of me."

She rolled her eyes. "Tony, I was joking."

"So am I," he clipped, and lay down, resting his mouth back on her shoulder. "Permanent, huh? Are you asking me to marry you?"

She swallowed with a click. "I do not know what I am asking. I do know that I need a…"

He kissed the nape of her neck. "A what, Zi?"

"A home," she said softly. "I need a home. I want one with you."

Pressure grew in Tony's chest, a warm weight that spread into his arms and face. He smiled. "So you _are_ asking me to marry you."

She shrugged. "I want a family."

"You want to settle down." It wasn't a question.

"I suppose. I want a real life with someone who appreciates me-who I've become, not who I was." There was a finality in her words that meant he was not to call her a ninja or an assassin or an Israeli Super Soldier.

"And what about NCIS? We're your family."

"That is a job, Tony. For too long I've had work and life confused. I can thank my father for that, but I cannot blame him any longer. I am too old for 'Daddy-issues,' as you Americans say."

He scoffed. "No one's too old for Daddy-issues. Look at Gibbs."

She stiffened. "Gibbs is only himself, but he is an excellent father despite whatever tension existed between him and Jackson. I feel that is over now."

"It's never over, Zi, it just evolves."

"Gibbs is an excellent father," she repeated.

He scoffed again. "_Any _father looks good compared to ours. Mine shipped me out like an immigrant in steerage and yours trained you to kill."

Ziva shifted again and stroked his arm gently where it lay around her. "I look at the way Gibbs looks at Sara—he is so openly and unashamedly in love with her. And I think…" she trailed off, thinking. "I think so many things, Tony. It is hard. Not hard. Maybe strange."

He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "Are you jealous of her? Of how much love she receives?"

"She deserves it," she snapped. "She is a child and one who has lived through something violent and horrible."

"You were, too, once. A child, I mean. And one living in a horrible and violent country. Didn't you deserve the same thing?"

Her breath left her in a _whoosh_. "Israel may be violent but it is not horrible. It was my home for a long time. I do not appreciate the way you speak of it. You have been there, Tony, do the people seem unkind or unhappy or cruel?"

He tightened his grip on her. "Only half the ones I know."

She did not deny his unspoken assumption. "My father raised us the only way he could."

"And now two out of three are dead."

She sniffed and said nothing.

He curled himself around her, closing the narrow space between them. "He hurt you."

"Yes."

He kissed her ear. "I'm not talking about Somalia, Zi. He hurt you long before that."

"Yes."

"Emotionally? Physically?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "I figured."

She frowned. "How?"

"You think I don't recognize it? How eager you were to please Gibbs, to win his trust and affection? I've been there." He brushed a hand over her hair. "And it's ok. You're safe with us."

"I know," she sighed. "I wish I would have learned that sooner. A five-year-old figured it out faster than I."

Tony shrugged. "Kids are wired that way. They have an internal compass that tells them when they're safe and when they're not. We lose it as we get older."

"You didn't."

He grinned. "I didn't need to. I started on team Gibbs a long time ago—he told me I was ok long before I figured it out myself." He thought for a minute. "What's it like for you, as a woman, as a survivor, to look at Sara? What do you feel?"

Ziva shook her head, tangling her hair on the pillowcase. "You first."

"I feel this overwhelming sense that we are finally whole, as a team. We love having someone to take care of. I do, anyway, even though it scares the crap out of me when she has one of those crazy tantrums."

She smiled and laced their fingers together. "It is scary, but she does that because she knows it is fine. She knows that someone will pick her up and cuddle her and make the monsters go away."

"You didn't answer my question," he prodded. "What do you feel when you look at her?"

"I feel…I _know_…what I missed. What I _am_ missing." She adjusted her broken arm on the pillow and Tony checked the clock—she was two hours away from another dose of painkillers.

"And what's that?"

"I want to be a mother," she said softly. "But…"

Tony sighed, sad. He'd read the reports—there was tearing, scarring, infection—she'd never get pregnant naturally, and if she did it would be dangerous for her to carry a baby to full-term.

"There are other ways to make a baby," he said carefully. "IVF, surrogacy—"

"Adoption," she blurted.

"Yeah," he mused. "I'm so excited. Abby and I are already planning the party. We got them both vouchers for airfare so he can take her to the beach or the mountains or something. Tim got her into a therapeutic horseback riding program starting next summer. I think she'll love it. She loves toy horses enough, don't you think?" He pushed himself up on one elbow to look in her face. "You want to adopt, don't you?"

She didn't look at him. "I want a child, Tony."

"We should get married." He said thoughtfully. "It'll be easier to adopt if we get married."

She snorted. "Yes, because Gibbs has had so much trouble adopting as a single father."

"Damn. I just wanted you to say you would marry me."

She rolled over, holding her broken arm high in the air. "I want to marry you," she declared softly.

He smirked. "No buts? No excuses? No contingencies?"

She frowned, puzzled this time. "Why would there be?"

"Because it's me, Zi. Wouldn't you want a pre-nup? I think you've called me a chauvinist pig on a few separate occasions."

She eyed him sharply. "If I ever ask you for a paper clip…"

He shifted to take the weight of her arm. "Got it!" He replied. "I hear you loud and clear. No paper clips, no credit cards, no sharpened toothbrushes."

"Good." She blinked at him lazily and curled again on her good side.

"You're so tired," he observed, and drew the blankets back over both of them. "Sleep. I'll keep watch if you need me to."

"No," she breathed, but he could tell she was already drifting.

He was just sliding into unconsciousness when her phone rang, jolting them both awake. Ziva cursed mildly in Hebrew and picked it up to study the caller ID.

"Gibbs," she told him unnecessarily and answered it _David_, then softened. "Hello, _shaifeleh_. Why are you calling me so late?"

Sara was raspy, congested. "M'sick," she reported. "And I had a bad dream. Can you come home?"

Ziva arced an eyebrow. "Does your Daddy know you're calling me on the phone?"

Gibbs' voice sounded in the background, faint and echoing. They were either in the bathroom or kitchen. "It's fine, Ziver."

Sara sighed into the receiver. "I want you to coming home."

"It is late, _shaifeleh_. How about I come home early tomorrow morning? I'll be there early enough to wake you up. Are you feeling poorly still?"

More Gibbs in the background and then she said. "Yes. Daddy wants you."

The phone was handed off with muffled noises. She smiled and Tony stroked her hair.

"Hey, Ziver," Gibbs said. "She wouldn't go back to sleep without talking to you."

"It is fine. She is ok?"

She could hear him shrug. "She's running a pretty high fever still. Duck said it would run its course in a day or two. Probably a virus. How's your place?"

"Misty," she yawned.

"Musty," he corrected. "Sleep tight." He hung up.

She replaced the phone on the night table. "I suppose you heard Sara had a bad dream. She's picked up some insect."

"Bug." Tony mumbled, taking her hand. She hummed in agreement and settled down next to him, asleep again in seconds.

. . . .

Ziva woke him early the next morning. The sun was barely up; he could've turned over and gone right back to sleep.

"Tony," she whispered. "Wake up, please."

Since when did she have manners? "Five minutes, Zi."

She jabbed him in the temple. "No, now. I want to go to Gibbs'. I told Sara I would be there early."

"It's like, five o'clock. Give me a few minutes."

"No," she said again. "It's almost six. Come on, Tony."

"Why?" He whined, drawing the word into several syllables.

She cupped his cheek. "Because I am hungry. Take me out for breakfast."

He was up in a second, tumbling off the mattress and grabbing his jeans. "How about Geraldine's? They're open early."

She held out her arm, pouting prettily. "Take this off," she commanded. "And help me take a shower."

His jeans hit the floor again. "Sure thing," he squeaked eagerly, and kissed her waiting mouth.

. . . .

Sara was waiting for them in the foyer, sitting on a low stool, holding Gibbs' phone in one hand and a sheepdog in the other. She'd been taught how to speed-dial Ziva, so the two of them spent the morning calling back and forth, making a game out of their ETA. She was still in pyjamas when she greeted them, but wore her brace this time. She struggled to her feet.

"Wanna help me getting dressed?" She asked Ziva, reaching for her hand.

"You are still very warm," She replied. "Do you feel up to wearing clothes today, or maybe just fresh _fig'ma'ot_?

"No," Sara sighed. "I want a dress on."

Ziva kissed her brow. "Can you go up the stairs by yourself of should I ask Tony to carry you?"

She held her arms out for Tony and he lifted her up, kissing her warm cheek. "C'mon, little bug."

Upstairs, Gibbs was dressed and shaving in the bathroom mirror. "Morning," he said, half-covered in foam. "How was the doctor?"

"Fine," Ziva replied blithely. "I am going back on Monday."

Tony was in Sara's room, undoing the straps on her brace, pulling her sweaty pyjamas off over her head. "She ate a huge breakfast _and_ took medicine," he tattled. "And none of it has been revisited. I think we're two-for-two, Boss."

Gibbs grinned and gave her a one-armed hug. "You look much better," he whispered in her ear. "That was all I wanted."

She blushed, looking away. "I told you I am fine, Gibbs."

"You will be," he agreed, and continued shaving.

Sara toddled in, keeping one hand on the wall. "I can't going to school today," she announced gravely. "I have a feeber."

"I know," Ziva said. "I am surprised you wanted to get dressed. I thought you would rest all day in your _fig'ma'ot_ and watch television."

"No way," she dismissed. "But maybe later I will need a nap in the stroller. Daddy or Tony can push. You can just walking."

"That sounds like a good idea," she agreed. "But what shall we do in the meantime?"

Sara rested her hot head against Ziva's thigh. "I think maybe just reading," she said quietly. "I want farmer book with you."

"I like to think of it as the family book, _shaifeleh_. Everyone works so hard together."

"Togeffer," she agreed tiredly, thumb in her mouth. "I like that, too."


	37. Happiness

__**We're rounding it off, folks. One more chapter and we're out. Thanks for all your support-you're all magical. Also, expect a sequel. Cause ya can't / ya won't / and ya don't stop. **

_As we fly around the sun._

_ We know we're not the only ones._

_ Love for the lonely? _

_ It's been a long time coming…_

_ -The Weepies, "Happiness."_

Gibbs forewent the stroller; it was a short walk from the parking lot to the pediatrician's office, and a shorter walk from the waiting area to the room. The nurse, a bubbly blonde in colorful scrubs, had him plop Sara on a baby scale just inside the exam-room door. "Twenty-three point four pounds," she read aloud. "When did she start vomiting?"

Gibbs checked his watch. "Forty-four hours ago. I was to bring her in if the fever wasn't down by now."

She smiled. "Go ahead and take her clothes off. I'll leave a blanket if she wants to wrap up. Dr. Sheehan will be right in."

He moved her from the scale to the exam table and Sara blinked at him, lifting her arms over her head. He pulled off her dress and legwarmers and wrapped the cotton blanket around her shoulders.

The doctor knocked but didn't wait for a response before entering. "I'm Mary Sheehan," she said kindly. She brushed an auburn curl out of her eyes and stuck out a small hand. "You must be Agent Gibbs and Sara."

They shook. Sara blinked again.

"Say hello," he chided softly.

"Hello," she echoed.

Dr. Sheehan smiled and flashed the front and back of both hands at her. "No needles," she said seriously. "So Daddy tells me you're throwing up and you have a fever. Is there anything else you want to tell me about?"

"M'sore," she rasped.

"Oh yeah? Are you sore where you got hurt? Under your brace?"

She nodded miserably and wrapped one hand around the hinged support at her left hip.

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Does it hurt more on that side?"

Sara nodded.

Dr. Sheehan nodded back, green eyes wide and concerned. "Sara, I want to look at you all over. I'm not going to touch you without telling you first, and I won't do anything on purpose that will hurt you. I'm going to start with your head and go down to your toes."

Sara nodded again, seawater eyes locked on her father.

"It's ok," he assured her.

The exam was typical until her fingers grazed over Sara's healing rib fractures. Both doctor and patient flinched and pulled back.

"Did that hurt, sweet pea?" Gibbs asked quickly.

"No," she replied vacantly. "Jus'…got a jumping."

"Sorry," Dr. Sheehan apologized. "When I saw the calluses I expected the injury to be older than it actually is. She's still growing spongy bone under those lumps."

"When will they go away?" Gibbs asked.

"Another month or two. She'll always be at risk for re-injury, so I would nix contact sports for her. In fact, I would nix anything but swimming and dance. She's not as sturdy as I'd like her to be."

"She's a tiny kid," he said firmly.

"A little _too_ tiny," she countered. "I know she has some developmental issues, but she's way off the growth curve for her age. Let me finish and we'll talk. Are you ok, Sara?"

"M'fine," she said vacantly.

She reached for the Velcro closure on Sara's brace. "I want to take this off and look underneath. Do you want do lie down or sit up for this part?"

Sara leaned back on her hands. "Sit up," she answered simply, eyes wandering.

Dr. Sheehan bent and flexed her legs, rolled her at the waist, had her lie flat, sit, stand, and walk. She frowned when Sara stood, and it deepened when she walked.

"Does she wear this as prescribed?" She asked Gibbs, pointing at Sara's hip-abductor brace.

"Twenty-three hours a day," he confirmed. "Why?"

"She's got some alignment issues. Were both acetabula fractured?"

"In English, Doc."

"Where both of her hip sockets broken in the initial injury?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he groused. "Levine said her pelvis was shattered. She had a fixator for two weeks and then she got sick and they had to close her up, so they put her in the brace. She wasn't weight-bearing until a week and a half ago, and not walking until two days ago. That's why she needs to hang on to something." He handed her the envelope off all Sara's medical paperwork.

She dug for Sara's x-ray films, jabbing them onto the lightbox with stiff fingers. "I'd like to refer you to a few specialists for Sara—one for her growth issues, and one for her pelvic injuries. She's not growing and healing the way she should be."

Gibbs nodded. "What about her fever?"

She checked the Sara's list of meds. "I think we should switch her to tetracycline for two weeks and then go back to amoxicillin when she finishes it. Don't be surprised if you have to do that once in a while—some infections build up a tolerance for constant antibiotics."

"Is she in pain?" He blurted suddenly, heart heavy. He picked Sara up and she curled against his chest, sighing as she always did and sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Dr. Sheehan shrugged. "She feels crappy," she said honestly. "But she isn't resistant to walking or moving. I'm worried about long-term growth and development. She's at risk for hip dysplasia and severe arthritis."

"What about her delays? She acts like a three-year-old."

"Tell me more about that."

"She's just now getting basic pre-school stuff—numbers, letters, days of the week, months. She's gotten better, but…"

"She's not grasping the concepts, just trying to memorize what she's being told," she finished for him. "How is she socially? Does she prefer children her own age, or younger?"

"She prefers adults," he said succinctly.

Dr. Sheehan clicked her tongue. "I wouldn't be surprised to hear that she'd been abused by other children. Bullying—preying on the weak—is typical of children in group-home settings and she spent a number of weeks in a shelter downtown. Foster children are just trying to survive, but it can lead to some pretty heartbreaking social anxiety in the victims. Give her time and a lot of love. Let me finish her exam quickly and we'll chat more about that." She tickled the back of Sara's leg. "Can I check you out again?"

"Yeah," she agreed softly.

Gibbs sat her back on the table so the doctor could check her reflexes, vision, hearing, and motor skills. Satisfied, she had him dress her again.

"She's delayed, for sure, but as long as she's in therapy I'm happy. I don't want to force her to talk to me—she's pretty zoned out. Tell me about her speech issues."

Gibbs shrugged. "That's where improved the most. She used to run all her words together. It was really hard to understand her if you weren't used to it."

"A clutterer," she confirmed. "Did she talk fast? Forget to enunciate?"

"Yeah." He picked Sara up again; she was close to falling asleep.

"I'm glad you're seeing such great results. Just remember that _she_ can't hear it when she clutters, only you can. Remind her to slow down and concentrate. Does she do it often?"

"If she's scared or angry. Only certain sounds get pushed together."

"I really feel that she'll be fine," Dr. Sheehan informed him. "And she's cute as a button. Keep reading those stories." She handed him referral forms for a pediatric endocrinologist and a orthopedic surgeon and a lollipop for Sara. Then she sent him on his way, instructing him to call if the fever didn't break after twenty-four hours with the new antibiotic.

He lowered Sara into her car seat and she gazed at him sleepily, unopened lollipop loose in her fist. "I like her, Daddy," she informed him.

"She likes you, too," he replied, smiling. "Let me hold your candy until we get home."

Her eyes hardened. "No. I won't eat it until you say."

He wasn't in the mood to negotiate, so he simply plucked it from her hand and deposited it in his pocket. "Daddy will keep it safe for you," he said to her stricken expression. "But I don't want you to have it while I'm driving. It isn't safe."

"Fine," she grumbled, too tired to throw a fit.

He kissed her cheek and pointed them toward home.

. . . .

Sara perked up after her third dose of the new medicine. "I'm hungry," she declared.

"What do you want?" He asked, bushing a kiss on her hair.

"Pumpkin pie," she said confidently.

"How about soup?" He offered instead.

"How about ice cream?" She countered, walking a rooster up his arm.

They'd negotiated down to a grilled cheese sandwich when Tony dropped off Ziva, broken arm in a still-warm fiberglass cast.

Sara's eyes went wide. "It's green, Zeeba. How did you get green?"

Ziva's cast was indeed green—an electric shade reserved only for safety vests and the occasional construction sign. "I let Tony choose," she shrugged.

Sara shook her head disapprovingly. "He is very silly, Zeeba."

She just laughed and kissed her head.

Gibbs slid a sandwich in front of her. "Eat," he commanded, laying a hand on her back. "And then you get to watch her while I go to the lawyer. The judge wants to move the appearance up to next week."

Ziva smiled brightly. "That's amazing. Are you so excited?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I want this to be over."

Sara's head began to droop. "I need a nap," she whined, and held her arms up. "Daddy, can you read?"

"Ziva has to do it," he apologized. "I need to go make sure the lawyer spells our name right."

She just wrinkled her brow. "How about you tucking me in?"

"_That_ I can do," he promised. He carried her upstairs and slid her beneath the blankets.

Her eyes grew wide. "What's going to happening when we go to the judge?"

"We're going to show him all the papers that say I want to adopt you, and then he's going to sign a certificate that says you're mine forever."

"Even if I'm big?"

"Yep."

"Even if I'm bad?"

"You're never bad," he whispered.

"Making good choices," she parroted, but drifted off in thought. "_Fosserkid_," she blurted suddenly.

He lowered himself to the mattress beside her. "You won't be a foster kid anymore. You'll just be mine. You'll have my name and there will be no more Ms. Susan and no more moving from house to house. Just us."

She put both hands in the air. "And Zeeba, and Tony, and Tim, and Abby, and Ducky the Doctor, and Papa." She looked at him sideways. "And a pony."

"Let's hold off on the pony."

"And a sheep," she amended. "Where is your mommy?"

"She died a long time ago, sweet pea. She was sick."

A look of deep concern flashed across her face. "Everbody's mommy is dead," she said sharply. "I don't want you to be dead."

"No one is going to die for a very long time. You are safe."

"Safe," she echoed, staring out the window. "Mommy."

He stroked her hair. "I'm sorry you miss her."

"Miss her," she echoed again. "Miss my mommy. She is dead."

"I can't take away how sad you are, sweet pea, but your brothers and sisters and I love you very much."

She looked at him then at the door. "Love you. Where is Zeeba?"

"Finishing her lunch. She'll be up in a minute." He toyed with her hair for a minute longer, listening for Ziva's light footsteps on the stairs. She stepped over the squeaky floorboard.

"Hi, _shaifeleh_. I am here now. Daddy can go to his meeting with the lawyer."

"Bye," Sara dismissed with a wave, and snatched a book from her bedside shelf. "Here, Zeeba."

She curled up next to Sara and held the book one-handed over their heads. "What do you think about Benny's bagels?"

Gibbs gave them each a kiss. "See ya," he whispered.

Sara turned to look at Ziva and pushed the book aside. "Is Daddy your daddy?" She asked sweetly.

"Kind of," she hesitated. "Gibbs makes sure I am safe."

"You are being a _fosserkid_," Sara said tartly. "But Daddy is nice. He would never hitting you."

Ziva couldn't deny her statement; her own father had deliberately failed, and now Gibbs was fostering her in a sense—mentoring her, protecting her, _fathering _her the way Eli David hadn't.

"I am not technically a foster kid, _shaifeleh, _but Gibbs takes care of all of us. Abby, Tony, Tim, you, me…"

"You got hurt," she pouted.

Ziva swung her new cast. "But it is getting better," she said certainly. "And soon I will not need even a cast anymore. The bad men went to jail for hurting me so they can't hurt anyone else."

"_Before_, Zeeba. You got hurt _before_. Daddy said."

"That was a long time ago. I am fine now."

"You have long marks from hitting."

Ziva wished she would just drop the subject. "Yes, but they don't hurt anymore. We should read your book now."

"No," Sara said sharply. "I don't want to reading anymore."

She kissed her cheek and cuddled her close. "Then _laila tov._ I love you."

Sara grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. "No!"

She disentangled her fingers quickly and gently then slid out of bed. "Sara! That is not ok! You may _not_ pull my hair. I was going to stay while you fell asleep, but now I will not because you made a very disrespectful choice."

She burst into tears, hiding her face under her rabbit.

"Goodnight," Ziva said firmly. "I love you." She stepped out, jumping slightly when an arm wove around her waist. "Tony! You are supposed to be at work."

"We got 'em," he said, smiling. "So I delivered him to his arraignment and bounced out of there. I've been working twelve-hour days, Zi. Think I could get a break?" He'd been gone all weekend, tracking down the man who murdered Private First Class Andrew Martinelli in an obtuse lovers' triangle. He followed her into the guest room. "What, not happy to see me?"

"Of course I am," she said witheringly. "You just surprised me. Help me pack; I'm going home tonight for good."

"Vance got your statement," he said carefully, folding a t-shirt. "He scheduled a psych eval for you on Wednesday morning. You're supposed to meet with him right after."

She was quiet for a long time, stacking books, collecting her personal items, charging her laptop. "Tony," she said finally, laying a hand on his arm. "I do not want to go back."

He sat on the edge of the bed, smiling faintly. "Why?"

"I cannot do it any more. The death, the sadness, the pursuit, fighting for good and losing all the time…I cannot bear it. I drafted a resignation letter on Sunday while Sara was napping and Gibbs was working downstairs. I need someone to proofread it. Can you do it?"

"You're throwing it away," he mused, staring blankly at her broken arm. "Gibbs said you might. I didn't believe him."

"I am not throwing anything away, Tony, I am simply giving us an opportunity to succeed. Together."

He brightened a bit. "Oh," he mumbled. "I didn't look at it that way."

"I know," she said wryly. "But you must."

"Have you asked for a transfer? Intel could use your language skills."

"I am retiring."

His eyes widened, jaw falling open. "Are you kidding me? Ziva, you've worked so hard to climb the ranks. What were you thinking?"

"Tony, I have outlived every single one of my Mossad colleagues and most of my IDF squadron." She pursed her lips. "They owe me."

"How much?"

"Enough," she conceded. "Enough for me to live on while I figure the rest out. I suppose this is the closest thing I will see to a mid-life crisis."

"What about us?"

Ziva frowned. "What about _us_? I am not leaving you, I am leaving NCIS."

Gibbs poked his head in the door. "Are you now, David?"

She flushed red, gaping. "I…yes. I have decided to retire."

He shrugged. "Ok. What time did Sara go down?"

"Twenty minutes ago. You can expect her to sleep for at least another hour. She was quite tired."

"I know. You two hash out whatever the hell you need to hash out. I'll be in the basement. Wake my kid and I'll knock your heads together."

"Copy that," Tony said, never taking his eyes of Ziva.

She nodded. "Thank you, Gibbs."

"What about me?" Tony whined. "When will I get to see you?"

She tried not to roll her eyes. "Well, I don't know, Tony. Maybe we could date like regular people. Go _out_—eat in restaurants, or go to concerts, or movies, or the park, take romantic weekend getaways to remote islands."

He perked up. "How remote? _Blue Lagoon _remote or _Swept Away_ remote? The difference is olive oil and loincloths."

Ziva laughed. "You are incorrigible."

"I'm in love with you. Move in with me."

She sobered. "There is no ring on my finger. I will not be your wife without _being _your wife."

He shrugged, "Ok, fine." He dug in his pocket, dropped to his knee, and took her left hand in his. "Marry me?"

She could not formulate any comprehensible response. She stared, mouth opening and closing, hand growing sweaty in Tony's.

"Does that mean _no_?" He asked, eyes wet. "Because I can handle it if you postpone on me, but I don't know how I'd do with a flat-out _no_. Oh, and I was going to wait, but you kinda forced me into this so…"

"Yes," she sighed, feeling her heart finally slow enough to speak. She pulled her hand away and punched him awkwardly in the shoulder. "But stand up."

He slid the ring on her finger and stood, chest collapsing. "I love you," he whispered roughly. "I love you so much."

"Love you, too," she muttered, and kissed his waiting mouth.

. . . .

Abby stomped in with McGee hot on her heels as Tony was layering cheese and pasta in a baking dish.

"Making lasagna," he announced. "Be ready in half and hour."

"Did you do it?" She blurted. "You did, didn't you? You did it! Did she say yes?"

"I did," Ziva chimed from the living room. "And how do you know about it?"

Abby swept in and hoisted Sara onto her hip. "How do you think he knew to go with a basic diamond solitaire?"

"Oh," She faltered. "You, I guess."

Sara looked bewilderedly back and forth between them. "Wha'happened?"

She worried.

Abby bounced her. "Tony asked Ziva to marry him and she said yes! Isn't that exciting, ladybug?"

"Yeah!" She cheered, but grew confused quickly. "What's married?"

"Well," Abby drawled. "It's when two people love each other very much and they decide to stick together forever."

Sara shrugged. "It's like adopted."

Ziva smiled, "Sort of, _shaifeleh_. Only Tony and I are grownups. Instead of Daddy taking care of us, we'll take care of each other."

"Ok," she agreed easily, losing interest in the conversation. "I'm hungry."

Gibbs closed the basement door. "Well no wonder. You ate three bites of lunch. Let's help Tony make a salad."

"With 'pumber," she agreed.

"With cucumber, because it's your favorite."

Abby shouldered Ziva's good arm. "Date?"

"Not set," she said quietly. "I've barely had the time breathe, let alone take out a calendar and plan the next phase of my life."

"Well the three of us will sit down together and pick a date," Abby said helpfully. "And then we'll pick out a dress, and a venue…"

"I'm not sure I want a traditional affair," Ziva interrupted quietly. "I think I might like something a little less…"

"Fun?"

"Fussy."

Abby shrugged. "Then elope and throw a party when you get back. Ooh! Or maybe Timmy and I will surprise you with a party." She grinned, tenting her fingers.

"Why don't we just eat lasagna and enjoy each other's company for now," Ziva said. "I can assume you know that Sara's adoption got pushed forward by the family court judge? He moved it to next week. _That _is a party you can plan."


	38. Epilogue: Cinnamon Girl

__**Well, this is it, folks. Be on the lookout for the sequel. Thanks for all the reviews. And the rum. *toast**

_I can be happy the rest of my life_

_ with a cinnamon girl._

_ -Neil Young, "Cinnamon Girl."_

Gibbs stood behind the courtroom table wearing the first new suit he'd purchased in twenty years. Tony helped him pick it, counseled the tailor on the cut and finish, and chose a tie to match. He looked good. _Damn good_ if the look in the adoption paralegal's eye was any barometer.

Sara was wearing a new white dress that made her olive complexion—sun-kissed, despite the boatloads of sunscreen he slathered her with—glow in the harsh overhead light. She chinned herself on the table and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Daddy," she stage whispered, wide-eyed. "Are you sure the judge won't taking me away?"

"Positive," he replied.

Their lawyer, Ronnie Milbar, smiled and poured her a glass of water. "Here, Sara. Take a sip and a deep breath. It's going to be fine."

The court rose for the entrance of the Judge Frank Carlton, a friendly family court veteran on the cusp of retiring. He directed the attendees to sit and looked openly at Sara.

"You like that guy?" He asked, pointing to Gibbs.

Sara nodded, startled. "Yes, sir," she said loudly, and covered her mouth when the audience tittered.

"Good. You want to stick with him?"

"Yes, sir," she said again, quieter.

"Good." He turned to Gibbs, Ronnie, and Susan McNamyre. "I reviewed the file and found the petitioner, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, to be a fit and respectable adoptive parent for minor child Sara Elise Cohen. Stipend for therapeutic care to be awarded monthly until the minor reaches age eighteen, providing the parent submits biannual reports to the proper social service officials." He signed the certificate and passed it to the bailiff, who handed it to Ronnie.

Gibbs smiled down at Sara and winked.

"Are you also petitioning for change of surname?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Sara Elise Cohen is to become Sara Elise Gibbs as of the closing of this session."

"As you wish," Judge Carlton replied, already signing the form.

Tony, seated behind Gibbs, chuckled at the _Princess Bride_ reference, then _oofed_ as Ziva jammed her cast into his ribs. Tim shushed them both.

The judge looked up. "Guess that's it," he announced casually, and banged down his gavel. "Adjourned. You want me to take pictures?"

Abby rushed forward with a camera and Sara jumped as the applause began.

Gibbs picked her up and held her high over his head. "That's it," he said to her, smiling, looking directly into her seawater eyes. "You're mine. I love you."

She giggled, limbs flying, and met his gaze. "I love you, too, Daddy. F'effer, ok?"

He settled her on his shoulder and nuzzled their faces together. "Yep, sweet pea. Forever."


End file.
